As A Star
by ignitethenight
Summary: Completed. In one night everything changed. Now they're just trying to pick up the pieces. MarkMaureen, mentioned RogerApril, MarkRoger friendship and MarkRoger. Kind of. WARNING: Deals with suicide.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**: I've been wanting to write this for a while, and have been working on it for a good while. :) I wanted to explore Roger's withdrawal a little, how it went and how Mark reacted to it. That's the best explanation I can give - this one's kind of a weird one. :p I'll say as a quick warning that it's probably a bit AU - I'm sure I've mucked with the canon timelines a bit. This started as an entry for **speedrent** where we were prompted with some lyrics from "Heal Me, I'm Heartsick". I wasn't happy with it and knew I'd rework it a bit and continue it ... and here I am. :) Anyway, I know it switches from past tense to present tense at the beginning there. I did it for a reason that makes sense to me, anyway, just to let you know. :p I hope you enjoy!

_Prologue_

He'd stumbled into the loft that night, already coming down from the high and restless, wanting to see April. It was always best when they could shoot up together, have mind-blowing sex, and then lie side by side, coming off the high but less anxious about it because they had each other.

He couldn't even remember how the show had went by the time he entered the loft. He didn't care anymore, anyway. He just wanted to see April. He laughed a little as he tripped over his own feet traveling through the loft, almost ending up on the couch but straightening himself just in time.

"April? Baby?" he called out, laughter still in his voice. It struck him that it was awfully quiet in the loft – not only that, but it was a different kind of quiet from usual. Something was off – something …

Roger stopped where he was, screwing up his face in his effort to concentrate. There it was again – a dripping. Water.

Roger walked over to the kitchen sink, but it was dry as a bone and no water dripping from the faucet. It didn't seem like an empty dripping, anyway; it seemed like water dripping into a bigger water, he thought.

No fear had entered his foggy mind yet, so when he entered the bathroom he did it without hesitation.

It took a moment to register what he found there. At first he thought April had fallen asleep in the tub, and he started to smile. Then he saw that the water wasn't clear and white like it should be. It was red, streaks of pink running through like a sunset.

Roger staggered back, eyes frantically searching April's body until he saw clean-looking lines on the insides of her wrists, lying limply at her sides. He gasped a breath, and went and kneeled down beside the tub, touching April's face.

"Baby?" his voice cracked a little as he gently stroked April's cheek. She was so goddamn cold. 

"Who did this to you, baby?" Roger asked brokenly, practically whispering as he looked around the bathroom, for what he didn't know. Help. Anyone but him to deal with this.

Mark and Collins found him like that, sitting with his body leaning against the bathtub, his fingers absently stroking April's cheek, his strong, calloused fingers looking impossibly pink against the faint bluish tinge of her skin.

"Jesus," Collins said, coming in and pulling up Roger. "C'mon, man, let's get you out of here."

Mark stood stock-still in the doorway, frozen as he took in everything. "Oh, my God."

Roger didn't fight Collins as he dragged him up, away from April and towards the door. He was going to ask if he should maybe call for an ambulance when he heard Mark take a pained, hissing breath. He was the first to see the note.

"Get him the fuck out of here, Collins," he said desperately, darting over to the bathroom mirror. But not in time.

Roger turned and took in the little piece of paper taped to the mirror. He looked at it a moment, then put his head down and let himself be led into his bedroom by Collins.

"I thought someone had done that to her," Roger said wonderingly. Collins just looked at him, preternaturally solemn, for him.

"You just lay down, okay, Roger?" Collins said, guiding him down onto his bed. "Me and Mark – we're gonna get some stuff done. You just … just stay here, okay?"

Roger nodded, looking at Collins's somber face. "Collins – what are you going to do to her?"

Collins swallowed, the breaking of Roger's voice reverberating through the room. "We're – we're gonna call some people, Rog – they'll … They'll take good care of her, okay?"

Roger nodded silently from his place on the bed, laying flat on his back and staring unseeingly at the ceiling, his arms at his sides, just like he'd seen April. April, who last time they'd been together in this room, high on the drugs, had raised her arms to the ceiling and giggled. "I'm lonely as a star," she'd cried, smiling brilliantly as she stared up at the same ceiling Roger was staring at now. But then she'd looked down at him, and placed a sweet soft kiss on his lips.

"But it's not so bad when I'm with you."

As he lay there, he could hear strange voices in the loft, footsteps past his door. He waited quietly, muscles frozen, until he heard the loft door clang shut. Sobs came then; silent wracking sobs that hurt every single part of him as he curled his body, wrapping his arms around himself, unable to breathe and barely aware he was crying, feeling like the whole world had disappeared.

He didn't know how long it was before Collins showed up at his door, Mark not far behind, looking exhausted and sad. He'd calmed down somewhat by then, his face wiped clean on his shirt and his arms at his sides, again staring unmovingly at the ceiling above him.

Roger didn't say anything as Collins came over and leaned against the wall beside his bed, sliding down into a crouching position, his arms hugging his legs as he watched Roger.

Mark came and lay beside him in his bed, his weight as he sunk down pulling their bodies together. Mark didn't look at him, but after a moment Roger felt Mark's hand take his, tangling their fingers together, Mark warming him slightly. 

They all stayed like that for a long time, letting Roger be silent but making sure he wasn't alone. He didn't know how long it took for him to finally speak.

"I've got AIDS."

They didn't respond, except Mark squeezed his hand painfully. He turned his head to Collins and laughed wetly. He didn't know why.

He thought of April – his love – cold in that bathtub. He could never go in there again.

"Fuck it," he said wetly, using his free hand to wipe at his face. "Mark, get the fuck up."

Mark stood, struggling to keep the hurt out of his eyes.

"Listen," Roger continued, not looking at either of them. "In the bottom drawer there, under the shirts and the notebooks, is my stash. And needles. Fucking get them out of here."

Mark looked at him a second, then walked over to Roger's dresser. Roger suddenly sat up, crying out. Mark whirled back, coming over to Roger's bed.

"Get gloves," Roger said hoarsely. Those fucking needles. They could still have it on them. He wouldn't let Mark or even Collins touch anything until Collins went out and bought some gloves. Then they disposed of everything Roger asked them to throw out, including the clothes April had left there.

When they were done, they came back into his room. Mark climbed into bed beside him again, and Collins threw a pillow on the floor and settled down beside Roger's bed.

Roger didn't look at them. "Get out of here, both of you. You two can't baby-sit me forever."

Mark stayed silent, but Collins spoke up from the floor. "Won't hurt us for a few days. And we're not leaving you alone, so get used to it."

Roger stayed awake long after Mark and Collins went to sleep. He didn't know if his mind was blank or if he was simply thinking too rapidly to retain any thoughts.

When the morning light started invading the loft, though, and he felt himself slipping into sleep against his own will, one thought came through, stuck with him. He held onto it, like holding on to a ball of razors. April's smile.

In that moment he thought he was going to miss her smile most of all.

- - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

_Two months later_

Mark wakes up really slowly, fighting it for as long as he can, not letting the fuzzy edges of his brain clear and ask why he doesn't want to wake up. He just keeps his eyes closed tight and drifts, he stomach feeling tight and sick.

But eventually reality creeps in and he finds he can't ignore it anymore. Collins is in his and Benny's room and Mark is sleeping on Roger's floor, trying hard to be there for him but not cross any invisible and silent boundaries that have been set up between them.

Mark rolls over, wincing as he tries to stretch out his back and legs. Sleeping on the floor … is not ideal. But not much is these days.

Mark still doesn't let himself think about some of it. He'll think about cleaning up the bathroom after Roger has weakened and then strengthened again; he'll think about the necessities of everyday living, of getting Roger to eat _something_ and drink water and get pills. He'll think about the gratitude he feels towards Collins for sticking around when he could be in California or Hawaii or some equally warm and exotic place, and he'll think about getting another job – just for a while – and about calling his parents to ask for just one more emergency loan.

But he won't think about April. He won't think about that first night, or seeing that note, or grabbing for Roger's hand while they were in the clinic, Roger staring stoically ahead.

Those things he puts away, for now. 

With a sigh he rolls upwards into a sitting position, automatically hugging his knees to his chest and staring at Roger, who is still sleeping. Finally.

Mark's eyes are still burning with exhaustion – he's surprised he has been able to wake up as dependably as he has. But every moment there is the danger of Roger sneaking out and getting the drugs. In the worst times he's confined to the bathroom, sick in every part of his body and shivering like an animal. And every time he seems to be getting better – every time the shivering stops and he actually manages to collapse, exhausted, into sleep – that's when the danger comes. Mark starts to wonder if the other side of this even exists at all. 

But now that impossible hope is rising in his chest again – eight days. It's been eight days since Roger last had a hit – the longest amount of time he's gone since that horrible night two months ago.

(_Don't think about it, don't even go there, stop stop stop_)

He wouldn't wake Roger up for the world right now. He needs to take the medicine the clinic gave him, but he hasn't really slept in four days. It can wait. Mark is going to sit there and stretch and drink in the sight of Roger sleeping, no matter how tired and sick and skeletal he looks –

(_No, not sick, not skeletal, he's just sleeping, he's gonna be **fine** – _)

Mark sighs, but makes sure he's quiet as he does so. And he sits there a long time, in the dark and closeness of Roger's room, just watching that sleeping face and trying not to think.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

Roger is lying with his eyes closed, breathing evenly and pretending he doesn't exist.

- - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - -

Only once has it been too much for Mark, so far. It was two weeks ago – well, sixteen days, if you wanted to be completely accurate – and Roger had been retching and shaking and clutching at Mark's shoulder after sneaking some of the drugs the night before. And Mark, trying to be calm, trying to seem peaceful and be the _everything is all right_ that Roger needs, tries to put his arms around the shivering boy in front of him begging for help.

And Roger hit him. In the chest, not enough to cut or bruise. But it hurt like hell all the same. Mark hadn't pulled away – he'd just tried to tighten his grasp, get closer to avoid another blow and to tell Roger he wasn't going anywhere. 

But Roger had skidded away, his feet scrabbling against the cracked tile of the bathroom floor, and then he seemed – God, Mark couldn't even place how it was Roger had seemed. He was scared and pissed and hurting and shocked at the same time, eyes wide and body collapsed in on itself.

There hadn't even been words – just a pained look exchanged between them before Roger crawled over to the toilet again, and rested his forehead against the cold porcelain, not looking at Mark.

Thank god, Benny had shown up then, and Mark had practically catapulted himself out of the loft, without even a word or backward glance to Benny. He hadn't been able to breathe properly until he was a good three blocks away. 

Then he'd just stopped in the middle of the street and taken a deep breath. It had felt good, cleansing. He closed his eyes, but they soon shot open when unwelcome thoughts started to pour in. Mark, for the first time since leaving the loft, glanced around and took in his surroundings. And it was then that he saw the poster. 

There were big dramatic red letters but Mark didn't pay attention to them. He paid attention to the picture of the girl in the middle of the poster, long curly hair and big eyes. Mark quickly scanned the information – a performance art protest – where and when, about a month away. He hadn't known he'd memorized it until a few days later when he found Roger cloudy-eyed again, and he'd chanted the details to himself. He realized he had something to look forward to.

- - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - -- - - -

When Roger opens his eyes – not wakes, exactly, but decides after a while that it's okay to open his eyes – he slowly starts to realize that the muted sounds he's hearing are probably Mark and Collins talking. Even before … Before. Even then Benny had been disappearing more nights than he'd been home.

Roger's body wants to yawn and stretch but he doesn't allow himself the luxury. There's a big part of him that wants him to feel bad – as bad as he possibly can, for as long as he can, so his body matches everything else.

Roger doesn't stop to consider that this might be why he keeps going back to the drugs.

A small fire is in his belly. It's not enough to be real anger, but it kind of pisses him off, Collins and Mark in the main room of the loft and obviously talking about him. What the hell is so interesting about him, anyway? Why don't they just leave, let him be as numb and drugged and dead as he wants to be?

He rolls over, still not letting himself stretch, staring at the wall in front of him. Not dead. He doesn't want to be dead. Doesn't want to be like April.

Even when he knows that's how he's going to end up, anyway.

Roger wonders at his own calmness. Sure, when the drugs are bad, are kicking his ass and making him shiver and feel like his bones are gonna jump out of his skin, then he lets loose a little without even really being aware he's doing it.

But whenever he's sober – caught in the limbo of what everyone else is calling reality – he can't let go. He's quiet and still and sad. But not angry. And it's weird that he's not angry, because April leaving him –

Roger pulls himself up. He should … do something. But he doesn't want to face the dual masks of concern that Collins and Mark have become. So he plods quietly into the bathroom, hoping they don't hear, and runs a trickle of cold water in the sink, catching it in his hand before bringing it to dry, cracked lips.

- - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

"I don't know what to do," Mark is saying quietly, body turned towards Collins on the couch but not looking at his friend. Eye contact feels too dangerous lately, so he avoids it for the most part. He more senses than sees Collins reach his arms over his head in a quick stretch.

"We're doing all we can," Collins says, voice deep and rumbly and somewhat comforting. "He has to do part of it, too, you know. I think we've learned the hard way that we can't watch him every minute."

"But we should," Mark mumbles quietly, stopping to glance down the hallway towards Roger's door. Both he and Collins know that he says 'we' without meaning it. Mark really means that_ he_ should be able to watch Roger every minute; that he should want that. 

Collins sighs. "We've still gotta live our lives. Help him as much as we can, but – " He shrugs helplessly. "I have faith that he'll stop, that this will get better."

Mark forces a smile. "How's Jamie?"

"He's … very fuckable."

Mark snorts quietly.

"Nah, he's nice and sweet, and he's a good distraction." Collins starts to lean forward, to get up, but is surprised to feel Mark shoot out a hand and grab his arm. He sits back down.

"You okay?"

That makes Mark want to laugh, but he doesn't. "It – it's just I'm usually the only one here. Benny's hardly ever here anymore, and you go out with Jamie, and I don't mind," he hurries to add, watching a little darkness flash over Collins's face, "But stay, would you, a little longer? Just, you know, to talk."

Collins looks down at his friend, almost as thin and pale and haggard as Roger himself. He'd pull Mark into a bearhug – he knows that's what he wants to do – but he also knows how this boy shies away from touch, especially when bad shit is raining down. So he gives him a quick pat on the shoulder and settles more comfortably into the couch.

"So, how's the writing?"

Mark smiles. "Nonexistent. I haven't written … well, in a while. And I'm fed up with everything I've done." He looks up, seeming a little faraway. "I need something different, you know?"

"Like what?" Collins asks, even though they both know that what Mark needs is to get away from Roger. But Collins only has a small inkling of just how impossible that is. Mark shakes his head.

"I don't know," he says. "I'm thinking … soon the cash we've saved up is gonna be gone. So I'm probably gonna get a job – just, I don't know, bussing tables or something."

"Mark – "

Mark holds up a hand. "I know you're not going to be here forever, Collins. And neither is Benny. And I gotta figure out some way to pay the rent and get food and – and AZT."

The men pause, both looking forward, shoulders just touching on the couch. After a moment Mark swallows and slightly pulls away.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How – how did you deal with it? How – when you found out – "

Collins exhales deeply. "Jesus. I don't know, Mark. I don't know if there's any way to actually 'deal with it'." He says, emphasizing his words. "You just – you just live through it and get reacquainted with yourself once you hit the other side."

Mark sits back, face impassive. "That's not very comforting."

Collins laughs, and pats his shoulder again. "It wasn't supposed to be. But I'm not dying today, and that's good. So I go with that. But Roger," and Collins sighs. "Roger won't talk with me or anything. Looks like he's gonna haul off and kick me in the balls whenever I try."

Mark laughs a little wetly. He knows that face too well.

Collins looks forward, and Mark pretends Collins can see that far-off time of the other side, when everything is settled and Roger is Roger again.

"All we can do is give him time." Collins looks at him hard then. "And a little space. Scary as it is, I think he needs that, too."

Suddenly Mark's chest is tight and full with everything he's been holding in and he has to stretch his neck and face to the ceiling to just give himself a little room.

"She was always kissing me. April. She was always grabbing me and kissing me on the cheek."

"I know, man. I miss her, too."

- - - - - - - - - --

- - - - - - - - - --

Hours later, Mark walks into Roger's bedroom, dressed and fiddling with the zipper of his coat. That date, time, and address are singing through his mind, annoying him, telling him to leave when all he really wants is to stay.

"Hey," he says softly, looking at Roger lying curled up on his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," Roger answers quietly.

Mark pauses, unsure of how to do this or even if he should. There's so much warring inside of him right now.

"Um, listen," he says finally. "There's – there's this protest … thing, going on, and I was thinking of going, maybe seeing what it was all about …"

Roger rolls over and stares at him, and Mark feels as if those eyes are burning through him, accusing him. He's leaving. Just like her.

"Do you … do you want to come with me? We could – "

"No," Roger interrupts him. Then, in the same breath, "Protesting what?"

Mark smiles that new awkward smile he's getting so used to and rolls his eyes, desperately trying to convey normalcy. This is just a normal night, a normal event, a normal friend.

"I don't even know – I think the poster said something about a panhandling campaign."

For just a split second, Roger looks a little amused, there's a spark of his old self, and Mark feels his heart flip over before Roger catches himself and turns back to the wall.

Mark waits a couple seconds. "So, Collins will be home soon."

Roger looks at him. "I know."

"So, I think – I – "

"Mark, go," Roger interrupts tiredly, running a hand over his face. "I just – I really want to stay home. But I'll be fine. You go and have fun."

There's no smile in his voice, or anywhere, no acknowledgment that there's any meaning in the word "fun" anymore, and Mark's heart constricts a little, thinking of his roommate jumping off a stage and twirling April around in the audience, grinning and shouting and alive. He turns away.

"Take your AZT," he says, getting used to the way the words slip off his lips. He's said them twice a day now for almost two months, varying his tones from soothing to furious, depending on Roger's current mood and behaviour.

Roger just stares at him, then turns his face away. Mark's shoulders slump a little, and he silently leaves the loft.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

When Mark gets to the huge alleyway the address leads him to, there's already a pretty sizeable crowd there. He stands in the back of the area, far from the stage where he won't feel the danger of being trampled by a mob. He continues to stay on the edges, taking in everything around him before the sun fully sets and everything is dark. After a long boring interval, where Mark is about ready to give up and go home, there's a huge growl just behind him. Mark looks up, fascinated, as a motorcycle roars past. A few moments later an unamplified voice comes out over the crowd. "Lights? Lights … fuck, there are supposed to be - "

And suddenly there are lights and the pretty girl from the poster is illuminated onstage, and her face goes from annoyed to smiling performance in an instant. She strikes a dramatic pose, says into the mic, "Thank you for coming – you ARE the light" and then launches into a monologue.

Mark stares at her. She's beautiful. And he can't help but wonder uneasily if he's missing something – because he can't understand one fucking word this girl is saying. Something about Little Red Riding Hood. And the lights keep missing their cues and every so often the mic gives a sharp report and stops working.

But when she's done the people cheer madly, and Mark isn't surprised. She's beautiful and vibrant with a gorgeous voice and it's like she's literally holding the crowd in her hand. Suddenly Mark feels a little dizzy and crazy and pissed at everything he's been through since he came to New York – since Roger came into his life. He decides to go and try to talk to the girl.

Of course, he's not the only one to have this brilliant idea. Dozens of people are surrounding this girl, shaking her hand and trying to talk and blushing. Mark waits patiently, keeping his eyes on the girl with her long dark hair and snapping eyes. Soon the crowd around her disperses and the girl wilts a little bit, her posture softening and the grin sliding slowly off of her face. She starts dismantling her stage, struggling with a huge amp as she tries to get it off the platform she's set up. Mark hurries to help her, grabbing one side of the amp before he ever says a word to her.

"Thanks," she says, smiling, but not the grin she gave to her other admirers. Mark's glad he gets a different smile.

Mark grunts, taking the amp completely from her and setting it on the floor. "No problem." After a moment of hesitation, he sticks out his hand. "I'm Mark."

"Maureen Johnson," this girl says, shaking the offered hand and then lightly jumping up onto the platform and unplugging a thick cable, wrapping it in circles around her arm.

"Oh. Cohen," he continues. "I mean – my name – it's Mark Cohen." He swallows, seeing her smile to herself as she turns away a bit. "Is there anything else I could help you with?"

She turns around, and looks at him. Mark feels this is the first time she's actually seeing him. "I don't know. What are you offering?"

Mark tries not to laugh. "Help. As in hauling around some of this heavy shit for you."

The girl – Maureen – crosses her arms just below her chest. "You think you can handle that?"

Mark scoffs, affronted. "Of course I can. Jesus."

Maureen laughs. "You don't look like you could handle much."

Mark suddenly decides he doesn't need this shit. "Fine. Haul your crap yourself."

"Wait!"

He turns around, barely keeping a small smirk off his face.

She looks at him, a little bit pleading, acquiescing. "I would like some help hauling this stuff to my van."

Mark raises an eyebrow and holds out his arms. "So, what do you need me to do?"

- - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - -

An hour later they both collapse on the platform after dragging the last heavy coiled cable out to her van. They haven't talked much, but Mark figures the many smiles exchanged count for something.

Maureen turns to him. "Hey, thanks, really. This was really nice of you."

Mark tiredly waves a hand, brushing away her thanks. "It's no problem. And you should really talk to your sound guy. The mic shouldn't be doing that."

Maureen's face darkens. "Fucking David," she says. "He skipped out right after the show, didn't even give me a chance to tear into him." She grins suddenly at Mark, all white teeth and promise. "Pisses me off."

Mark grins back. "Well, if you ever want any help …"

She pounces, rolling over to plant her hands on his chest, almost on top of him. Mark's breath hitches. Oh, he likes this girl.

"I would really, really like that," she says, and Mark thinks, _My God, she's actually** purring**_, before she's leaning down and her lips are on his.

When he walks her to her van and she says she's been living in it, Mark doesn't hesitate. He's had enough bad shit go down the past little while and Roger is just going to have to deal with it so Mark can have this. He warns her about Roger, about the way the loft has been recently, but she just laughs and says she lives for drama, _thrives_ off it, and then she kisses him hard, against his smiling lips, pushing him against the wall of her van.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

Roger is alone.

For the first time in months, he thinks. Someone has always been with him up until this point. A stab of fear hits him right in the gut.

Okay, he reasons. This is nothing. Compared to what he's been through, _nothing_. It's just hanging out in the loft. He's done it before.

But then Roger stops and realizes that he _hasn't_ done it before – that since moving to the City he has kept moving every fucking minute of every fucking day. He was so swept up in everything he barely remembered to sleep, only crashing late at night after shooting up.

With April.

It's that name, that memory, that more than anything else sends him back to the drugs. It happens almost like clockwork, every week. Collins isn't always there, Benny is _never_ there anymore, and Mark can't stay awake forever.

Roger can, and it's killing him. After that horrible night, when he finally fell asleep, he woke up to cold and stomach cramps. He ran for the bathroom, just making it, retching for what felt like hours, kneeling against the toilet, shivering like he was being shaken by some supernatural force. He doesn't know how long he slept before he came to this point.

And then Mark was there, kneeling beside him, and Roger could barely see him, just mumbled something about a hit, just one more hit to make this go away, just a little one, make this sick go away …

But Mark shook his head, staying there, his legs shaking a little. He stays there even when tears start to leak out Roger's eyes. He doesn't give.

And when it's over, when Roger isn't shaking quite so much, isn't spending 20 hours a day in the bathroom where it all began, they both start to take deeper breaths. They both think that maybe the worst is over.

But then that name – that face – it just flits through Roger's mind like a butterfly and the damage is done. He can't sleep, and Mark has to. And he sneaks out, and it all starts all over again.

Roger sighs now. Eight days. That's the longest he's gone so far.

_I can do this._

He rubs a hand over his face, feeling the long alien coarseness of his beard. He doesn't want to shave anymore. He wouldn't shower if he thought he could get away with it. And he'd piss off the balcony if he didn't think he'd get caught. 

Suddenly everything in the loft seems a little too dark and a little too quiet. And that's just enough to send him over the edge. He doesn't think about Collins, or the band, or what he's doing to himself, or AIDS or April. He's not thinking about Mark and what a fucking betrayal this is going to be.

He's just picking up his jacket and heading out the door.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

Mark and Maureen get back to the loft, Mark cutting off his laughter – god, it feels so good to really _laugh_ again – and telling Maureen to make herself comfortable before tiptoeing to Roger's room. Roger is lying there, and his eyes are a little cloudy, and he's sleepy. And Mark knows he's not supposed to be sleepy. It's a comfort withdrawal won't offer.

Mark shakes Roger's shoulders. It takes a minute for Roger to look up and connect. "Oh, hey, Mark."

Mark clenches his jaw. "Fuck." He can't tear into Roger, not when he's like this, not with all he's going through. Mark knows that it's pain doing this to Roger now, not a hunt for pleasure or weakness or stubbornness or uncaring or anything. Just simple bone-crushing pain. And he can't blame him for that.

Even if he wants to.

So he pushes Roger's shoulders, gets him laying down and covers him with his bedclothes. "We'll talk tomorrow," he says softly, watching Roger slowly close his eyes, something he hasn't seen for a week. He always gives into sleep before Roger can.

"Thanks," Roger mumbles, and for some reason this infuriates Mark. He feels so fucking _helpless_ against all this and Roger thanking him feels like a slap to the face, as if he's condoning this. As if he is, in any way, okay with all this shit they're both going through.

"You're welcome," he says, and lets his hand rest on Roger's shoulder an instant. Roger smiles – another rarity – and Mark relaxes slightly, but only for a second. He knows what tomorrow will bring now, and he hates having the knowledge.

When he goes back out into the loft and sees Maureen settling herself onto the couch, his usual sleeping place, he doesn't hesitate to go into Benny and Collins's room and filch all their blankets, dropping them on the floor next to the couch and Maureen.

"I don't know when my other roommates will be back," he says, and he knows how he must look. Sad. Defeated. Pathetic.

She smiles, and tells him it doesn't matter, and he doesn't protest at all when she slides her body off the couch to settle in beside him on the blankets on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mark?"

The voice doesn't exactly wake him – but it forces him to face reality. He groans, putting a hand over his face and feeling like shit until he feels a slender arm lying across his chest. He doesn't feel so shitty after that.

Mark turns over slightly, careful to not dislodge Maureen's soft arm as he reaches out for his glasses. His mouth and tongue feel all fuzzy and thick when he speaks. "Benny? Where've you been?"

"Hey, man," his friend says quietly, crouching down beside him. "How're things with Roger?"

_Fuck. Right._

"He used last night – we're in for a rough twenty-four hours."

Benny winces. "I'm sorry – and I'm sorry I haven't been here as much as I should." He stands, gesturing towards the kitchen. "Want some coffee?"

"Yeah," Mark says gratefully, reluctantly sliding out from Maureen's possessive arm. If she were awake he would kiss it as he got up. But she's not. He stands and stretches before walking over to the table Benny's leaped onto.

"So, look, man, we gotta talk."

"Okay …" Mark says, curious, as the scent of coffee starts to fill the loft.

"I'm getting married in a couple weeks."

Mark stops, and he's glad he wasn't holding or drinking anything, because an accident surely would have occurred. "What? Who – the girl – ?"

Benny shakes his head. "I … I haven't brought her here."

"Who is she?" Mark feels like this is just too fucking much too handle. He wishes he were still asleep.

"Allison Grey," Benny says, and Mark doesn't connect the name. "Her father – we've been talking, he came to look at the building, wanted to buy it, and we got to talking … and his daughter came in … With all this Roger shit, I wanted to wait to tell you, but …"

"Wait, wait," Mark says, pinching the bridge of his nose right under his glasses. Suddenly everything hurts. "I know that name …"

Benny looks away. "You've probably read their name in the papers. He's rich, Mark – crazy rich." Benny looks at him again, and his eyes are sparkling. "He owns this building."

The gears in Mark's brain are whirring. This is so sudden. "Do you love her?"

Benny gives him a shrewd look, and that pretty much answers for him. "Yeah. I do, believe it or not. She's incredible."

Mark rubs his eyes; he feels like he doesn't know his friend anymore. These last months he hasn't been here – Mark knows he shouldn't have expected him to not change. "Congratulations."

Benny grins. "Thanks, man. But it gets better."

Mark looks up, forcing a smile. "Yeah?"

Benny nods, serious. "Mr. … Allison's father … he's giving us a couple buildings as a wedding present."

Mark chuckles. "That is seriously fucked up."

Benny smiles and looks down. "Maybe – but it's gonna enable me to take care of you guys. Forget rent ever again. You're golden. And I'll help out with anything else, whenever I can."

Mark looks at him a moment, a lump in his throat. What Benny doesn't realize is that Roger stole money they needed for food and AZT for last night's hit, and Mark, even as he lay in Maureen's arms, had been convinced he was going to have to give up taking constant care of Roger, and work a full-time shit job again to pay for everything. Now everything can stay as it's been – only with a hell of a lot less worry.

Mark gets up and walks over to Benny and hugs him. Surprised, Benny returns the embrace. 

"Thanks, Benny," Mark says almost casually as he breaks away and returns to his chair. "That is … more than decent of you."

"Well, well, well," A sultry voice speaks up from behind the couch, and Mark looks over to see Maureen leaning over the back of it, looking amused. "If it isn't Benny Coffin."

Mark looks between them. "You know each other?"

Benny smiles uneasily. "Hi, Maureen."

Maureen stands up and saunters over, sliding her arms around Mark's waist from behind. "Never thought I'd see you again. I assume you thought the same."

Mark can't miss the sneer in her voice. "Are you okay?"

Maureen leans forward, her chin resting on Mark's shoulder. "Benny here was the one to kick me out of my place."

"Come on, Maureen, that's not fair – "

"I had no where else to go, and told him that, told him the rent would just be a few more days – "

"I had my orders from higher up – from the owner of the building, there was nothing I could do – "

Maureen stiffens. "You could have shut your big fat mouth." She steps towards Benny, breaking away from Mark. "You could have pretended I'd given you the rent. You could have not offered me a good _fuck_ as a consolation prize for my home."

Benny jumps up. "That is bullshit! Mark, don't listen to this crazy bitch – "

"Fuck you!"

Mark breathes. That's about all he's capable of right now. "Shut up, both of you."

They look at him, angry and surprised.

"I don't believe either of you. I've only known you – " he turns to Maureen. "For one night. So don't expect me to take your side." Then he turns to Benny. "I _like_ this girl. And I haven't seen you in ages, and when I do you drop this bomb on me. I have no fucking idea what to think."

Mark takes a deep breath, closes his eyes a moment. "If neither of you can handle that, you're both free to leave."

Benny deflates. "Maybe I didn't act the best way I could have. But I didn't say that to her."

Maureen crosses her arms. "Maybe not in so many words."

Mark holds up a tired hand, and they both quiet. "Benny, I've invited Maureen to stay here." He ignores the look Benny shoots him. "Please, for my sake, just get along, okay?"

They're quiet, and Mark takes it as agreement. "Now, I'm going to go have a shower," he says tiredly. "Try to play nice."

He's almost in the bathroom when Benny pipes up, "Mark? I wanted – I wanted to ask you to be my best man."

Mark laughs and disappears into the bathroom.

- - - - - - -

- - - - - - -

When Mark returns to the main room of the loft, Benny's gone. Mark can't exactly say he's surprised. Maureen is sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked prettily beneath her and a lock of hair in her mouth. She stops chewing and pulls it out when she sees Mark.

"Hey, handsome," she says, grinning. But Mark can see the uncertainty there. He smiles back at her, running a hand over his damp hair.

"Hey," he says. "You wanna go dancing tonight?"

- - - - - - -

- - - - - - -

Collins is more than happy to give Mark a night off, especially after being so late the night before. It doesn't matter that the subway stalled – he wasn't there, and that was what counted.

"But there is no way in hell I'm bringing Jamie to the dark dank abyss. Me and Roger'll talk about rock n' roll and pussy."

Mark laughs. "Good luck with that."

Collins grins toothily. "Yeah, I'll need it. Luck and a cup."

Mark laughs again, and it feels so good. He still kind of wonders at the fact that he still knows how. When he's with Roger he forgets what it's like to feel this way.

Collins's grin gets even wider when Maureen emerges from the bathroom in tight black pants and a revealing red top. He whistles, and Mark flushes slightly.

"I don't think I need to tell you to have fun," he says, and Maureen giggles, walking over to Mark and grabbing his hand, nuzzling his cheek.

"Nope," she answers him. "I've got him covered tonight."

Collins opens his mouth to say something but Mark shoots him a _shut up_ look and he keeps silent as they leave the loft. Mark turns back once to see Collins grinning, and when Collins sees him he thrusts his hips forward sharply. Shaking his head, Mark grins and closes the loft door.

- - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - -

Maureen wants to go to CGBG's, and at first Mark thinks this is a good idea. He associates it with loud pounding music and grinding bodies and fun. But it doesn't take him long to realize that those memories all have Roger in them. Roger playing the music, Roger dancing against Mark, Roger being the fun. Mark sees a poster, and it's half ripped off the wall, but he sees enough to know it's the Well Hungarians. Mark swallows painfully, then shakes his head in an effort to forget as Maureen pulls him onto the dance floor.

They dance together, Maureen flinging her arms around his neck and pulling him close, brushing their hips together occasionally, enough to send jolts of pleasure through Mark, and he's so fucking happy he took that chance with her, invited this perfect stranger into the loft and their lives, because it's just what he needed. So worth it.

After about five songs Mark needs water, but Maureen shakes her head, grinning, dancing, and Mark walks over to the bar to get his drink and when he turns back Maureen is dancing with another guy. Close.

Mark's hand closes a little more tightly against his glass, and Maureen dances a little closer to this new stranger. Her arms are around his neck, his are on her waist, and their eyes are locked –

And Mark wants to go home. He strides over to them, pushing through the jumping and gyrating bodies, the music pounding painfully through his skull, and puts a hand on Maureen's shoulder. She turns to him, grinning. 

"Oh, hey baby," she says, and Mark marvels how one little word can be so intimate and possessive, without them having any history or understandings between them at all. Mark remembers that she's a stranger.

"Hey," he calls, leaning close. "I'm not feeling well – you wanna go for a walk?"

She looks at him, concerned, and nods, taking his hand and pulling him off the dance floor. When they emerge into the cold nighttime air, she slows her pace but keeps his hand in her soft grip.

"What's the matter?" she asks, her breath puffing whitely into the night. "Do you feel better?"

"A little," Mark mumbles, pondering his next move. What the hell is he gonna do, ask her to wear his class ring? Maybe last night hadn't meant what he'd thought.

She stops, steps closer and puts her arms around him, pulling him close and looking up into his eyes. "You sure? Do you need anything?"

He looks down at her, and then suddenly they're kissing, and it feels _so_ good, and Mark hates that guy who's probably still dancing, _hates_ him, and he hates himself for not being more forceful and clear. He breaks away slightly, then uses his body to make Maureen step back, gets her against the wall of the club. He grabs her arm, pins it against the brick, but he's smiling.

"Do you always flirt like that?"

She looks up at him, eyes shining. "Was I flirting?"

Mark nods, losing himself a little in those eyes. "Most definitely."

Maureen places her free hand on Mark's hip. "I know I was having fun." Her voice drops, becomes deeper, sounds more seductive. "You don't like watching me have fun – dancing with that guy – rubbing up against him …" And she presses her body against his, looking down between them before making eye contact with him again. "And knowing that I'm going home with you?"

Mark looks at her. "Are you?"

She knows what he's asking. "Yes," she says incredulously, like she can't believe he's even asking. She stretches up, kissing him gently a few times, making his stomach drop and dizziness take over his mind. Mark swears this girl makes him more drunk than a gallon of wine could. "I like you."

"I like you, too," Mark says softly, looking down, knowing this is probably the stupidest thing he's ever done, falling for somebody like this when so much is going on already, when he already has so much to deal with. As good as it feels … something about it feels wrong, too. He leans his forehead against hers. "Unfortunately, I really like you."

"I don't see what's so unfortunate about that," she giggles, freeing her hand from his grasp and bringing it to his cheek. "You're a sweetheart. Come on, let's go home – the home that I'm going to with _you_."

And Mark grins, and they start walking, and she wraps herself as close to him as she can without them both toppling over, and Mark thinks that it really doesn't get much better than this.

- - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - -

When his bedroom door opens, Roger doesn't move at all, and keeps staring at the wall.

"Fuck off, whoever you are."

Collins chuckles at the tired voice from his spot in the doorway. "What a welcome. Nice to see you, too."

Roger takes a deep breath. "Sorry – I'm just – I'm so tired."

Collins stands there, arms crossed against his chest. "You look like goddamned Grizzly Addams. You also fucking stink. Come on."

That gets a reaction. Roger turns over quickly, looking concerned as Collins walks over to the side of his bed. "What? What are you doing?"

Collins grabs his arm and hauls him off the bed and towards the door. "I am making you take a fucking shower."

Then Roger fights. He grunts as he tries to yank his arm away from Collins's grip, twisting his body unnaturally and frantically, trying to plant his feet and not move another inch. Collins watches these struggles a moment before stopping.

"Roger."

He looks up at him, breathing hard, eyes darting. He doesn't want to face Collins like this.

Collins looks into his eyes, trying to convey the caring and rightness of what he's trying to do. "You've got to get used to it eventually, man. You've gotta face this shit."

Roger looks at him, silent, but when Collins leads him away he doesn't fight.

"There," Collins says when they reach the bathroom, shoving Roger in. "Turn on the water, get yourself clean, and then you're gonna shave."

Roger looks at him sharply, and Collins puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'll help, don't worry."

Roger nods, quietly leaning over and turning the water on. Collins steps outside, and within five minutes the bathroom door opens, Roger standing there in a towel and dripping wet, his eyes on the floor.

"Sit," Collins says, pointing to the toilet. Roger sits on the closed seat, hands clasped together in his lap. Collins goes to the cabinet under the sink and rummages before emerging with what he needs.

"Look up," he orders, and Roger complies, stretching his throat as Collins gently spreads the thick cool cream over his neck and face.

Collins swipes his hand on a washcloth crumpled on the counter and then brushes Roger's dripping hair, long brown with bleached tips, out of his face. Roger simply stares, silently. Collins grabs another towel and throws it on Roger's lap.

"I'm gonna shave you now, okay?"

Roger doesn't nod or look away as Collins leans down and carefully scrapes all over Roger's face, clumps of white hair falling onto the towel. When he's done he pulls up the towel and drops it on the floor, and tosses the razor in the sink before he turns back to Roger, smiling a little. He picks up the washcloth and rubs it against Roger's skin, wiping off any leftover shaving cream. He's surprised when Roger suddenly presses the side of his face hard into Collins's palm.

"Hey, man," Collins says softly, cradling Roger's face. "We're all here for you, you know that, right?" Roger doesn't react, but Collins continues. "We fucking love you, and that really does mean something, whether you can believe it now or not."

Still no reaction. Collins sighs lightly, pulling up Roger's face to look at him, putting his free hand on the other side of Roger's face, holding him there, forcing him to connect. "Listen to me. Your life is not over. I know – I _know_. I know it feels that way, but it's not." He grins. "I'm living proof you can live a good life after all this shit." Collins leans a little closer, wiggles his eyebrows. "A very fucking sexy life."

But Roger doesn't smile, and Collins sighs. He looks at him hard. "Do I need to grab your crotch just to get a smile out of you? I'll do it."

Roger smiles, so small his face barely changes, but Collins is satisfied. "Now go to your room, try to get some sleep." Roger gets up, and Collins slaps his ass as he walks by, rewarded by the little jump Roger gives as he goes through the door. A moment later, Collins follows him to his room, watching him climb naked into bed and under his covers. 

"Roger?"

He turns on his side, looking tired and so young, Collins's heart wants to break. "Yeah?"

"You been jerking off?"

"Collins! Fuck," Roger says, irritated, and turns away. "It's none of your business."

"Maybe not," Collins agrees. "But you haven't been showering and Mark sleeps in here and I was just wondering if you – "

"What does it matter?"

Collins stops. "Well, maybe it doesn't. If you're not jerking off just because you don't feel like it, well …" Collins shrugs. "It's understandable. But," he continues, "If you're not jerking off in an attempt to close yourself off, off from your body and feeling good and – and fucking _life_, well, then you've got a problem."

Roger just stays still, staring at the wall in front of him and not acknowledging Collins, who sighs.

"Just think about what I said, all right?"

And Collins leaves, giving Roger the space he thinks he needs.

- - - - - - -

- - - - - - -

When Mark and Maureen return to the loft, after kissing frantically up all four flights of stairs and only breaking away from each other to actually open the door, Mark sees that Collins is asleep on the couch.

He feels a little stab of fear in his gut, but tries to ignore it. He can't blame Collins – the responsibility is sometimes too much, and Collins needs to sleep whenever he feels like it. Besides, he said Roger might need time alone.

Mark's still pretty goddamned skeptical about that part, much as he'd like to believe it.

Maureen's arms are around him and she's pressing open-mouthed kisses against his neck, all warm goodness. Mark smiles, leaning into her, and she chuckles a little breathlessly.

"Where are we gonna sleep?" she asks, her hands running up his back.

Mark looks at Collins again. "Benny's never home anymore – we can sleep in their room."

Maureen looks up at him and wrinkles her nose in distaste. Mark laughs at her, and drops a quick kiss on that nose. "It's no worse than Roger's room – or even the couch, for that matter."

Maureen glances back at the couch, looking disgusted, which just makes Mark want to laugh more. But then he hears a sound, a muted thumping that's like an electric shock to his gut. He disentangles himself from Maureen.

"I've gotta go check on Roger, okay?" he says. "You go on to the bedroom – you'll find it fine."

Maureen nods, smiling, and leans forward to kiss him again before she turns away. She tries to keep him there, kissing him possessively, but he's practically turned away before the kiss even begins.

Mark doesn't see her reaction as he leaves her, hesitantly walking towards that muted noise that gets louder as he gets closer to the bathroom. The door is closed, but light is leaking from the bottom of the door.

Mark knocks, lightly. "Roger?"

There's no response, and Mark's body that was so warm from Maureen a moment ago is now freezing cold. Mark tries the door, completely unsurprised to find it locked.

"Goddammit, Roger," he mutters to himself, rattling the knob hard. This place is so damn old and broken down that this could potentially work. But it doesn't – Mark shoves and shakes the thing for a good five minutes before finally stepping back and bracing himself, kicking hard at the door. Three good kicks, and it flies open.

Mark stumbles in, expecting to find a belt around Roger's arm and a fucking dirty syringe in his hand. He inhales sharply when his eyes focus on Roger, curled up into the tiny space between the toilet and the bathtub, hunched down and rhythmically hitting the side of his head against the hard edge of the tub.

"Roger," Mark breathes, hurrying to crouch beside him, desperate to put his hand between the tub and Roger's head. "Fuck, Roger – what are you doing?"

Roger shakes his head, trying to get around Mark's hand. "It's back – it's back, and I can't move, and I can't, I can't …"

Roger trails off, mumbling softly to himself, and Mark takes it all in – the clean uncluttered bathroom and Roger shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. The drugs are out, and withdrawal's set in. One sickness for another.

Mark grabs Roger's arm, standing and pulling the other boy up with him. "C'mon, Rog, we're gonna go to bed, okay?"

Roger just nods, and Mark's relieved, because there have been times when he's fought it. They step outside of the bathroom, Roger's head down, and run straight into Maureen, who's standing there holding her hands together and close to her chest, looking scared out of her mind.

"It's okay," Mark says quietly. "It's just a bad night, but we've had them before."

Maureen nods, staring at Roger's shaking form.

"Listen," Mark says, his arms around Roger, supporting his weight, "I need to stay with him tonight – it … it can get difficult. You'll have to sleep alone, okay?"

Still silent, Maureen nods again, frozen for a moment before turning on her heel and escaping to Collins and Benny's room. Mark hitches forward, redistributing his weight and getting a better grasp on Roger. Slow, steady steps that take a while eventually bring them to Roger's room, and Mark helps him lay down, covers him up, even though he knows Roger probably won't sleep. For days.

Mark slides down to the floor once Roger is settled, his back against the wall and staring at his friend. It's hard not to compare this wasted person to the guy who was so friendly and vibrant and affectionate not long ago.

Roger turns his head, eyes looking feverish and glittering. "I'm sorry, Mark."

Surprised, Mark stares at him. "It's okay."

Roger violently shakes his head, then stares at the ceiling, overcome by the shudders of his body.

"Never again," he mumbles, teeth clacking. "Never, never …"

Soon he quiets, and Mark feels himself drifting off a little, as hard as he tries to fight it. He tries to get comfortable, head resting against the wall, but not so comfortable that he gives in to sleep. He thinks he's perfectly awake even as his eyes slip closed.

- - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - -

Mark wakes when a hand touches his shoulder. Startled and disoriented, it's a moment before he realizes Roger is standing over him in the black of the room. 

"Mark," he whispers. "I'm cold."

Mark nods, and starts to get up as Roger shuffles back over to his bed. When Mark walks over, Roger is back under the covers, all curled into himself and still shaking. Mark lifts the covers and slips under them, sliding over close to Roger.

After a moment of hesitation, Roger's head turns a little bit. "Mark? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," Mark says quietly, and he wraps his arms around Roger, molding his body to his friends'. Mark can feel his warmth transferring; can feel the heat building and being trapped under the covers. Roger gives a quiet little sigh, and Mark's heart constricts, feeling sick, remembering Roger beating his head against the side of the tub. Mark tightens his arms around Roger a tiny bit.

Fuck space. He's never leaving Roger again – not when Roger needs him like this.

Mark doesn't wonder why it is that Roger needs _him_. And he doesn't stop to wonder why he needs so much to be there for him.

He just knows, just goes to sleep, body pressed against Roger's in the darkness.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

Roger doesn't remember waking up Mark. He doesn't even remember feeling cold. He just knows he was suddenly so fucking scared he could hardly bear it.

He doesn't feel like he's using Mark. He's just relieved that Mark's able to make that go away, a little.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

Mark's heart beats fast, and his fingertips tingle a bit.

Two weeks. 14 days.

Early spring has hit New York, and this is how long Roger has gone without a hit now.

He sits in Roger's room, watching his roommate lay there quietly, clenching his hands in his bedsheets. When Roger wants to talk, he talks. Otherwise, they're both quiet, Roger laying in bed and Mark reading books that Collins brings him. He always seems to know when Mark's almost finished the most recent one.

Mark doesn't mention to Roger any of the changes he's seen. He doesn't mention Roger's clean shaven face, or the fact that he's started taking showers again, and he never acts surprised when Roger gives him a tiny little smile. Mark doesn't mention to Roger that it's been an awfully long time since the last hit – doesn't tell him that he's happy and proud.

He's too terrified of somehow fucking it all up.

And lately it's becoming a little clearer to him just how badly fucked everything could get.

Another night of the shakes and cold not long ago, and Roger had come into the living room where Mark was again sleeping on the floor, Maureen wrapped comfortably around his body.

"Who's that?" Roger had whispered in surprise, eyes darting from Mark's face to the sleeping girl beside him.

"Maureen," Mark had whispered back, searching Roger's face. " … I guess you don't remember seeing her before."

Roger shakes his head, silently staring down at Maureen.

"Roger? Are you okay?"

Roger shakes himself a little, returns to Mark. "Yeah. I … yeah."

Mark sits up, leaning on his elbows. "Hey, come on. What'd you come out here for?"

Roger looks away, face closed, and steps back. "Nothing. I just … never mind. I'm sorry."

He turns away, walking back towards his room and Mark tries to hurriedly scramble up without disturbing Maureen. When he rolls away from her embrace, she simply gurgles sleepily and turns over, pulling the blankets closer around her body.

He catches up to Roger just as Roger is about to close the door to his room. Mark shoots out a hand and catches it.

"Roger – seriously. What's going on?"

Roger turns away, looking at the floor. "I was – I was just cold. But I didn't know you had a girl here, Mark – I never would have …"

"Shut up," Mark says softly, and moves his hand from Roger's door to his shoulder, gently leading him towards the bed.

"Mark – ?"

Mark gently pushes him, and Roger lightly falls back onto the bed, looking up at him.

"I never want you to feel like you're bothering me, okay?" Mark looks to the ceiling and sighs. "Anything you need, you can ask me."

Roger looks at him, eyes dark and confused, but he lays down and pulls the covers over himself. Mark walks to the other side and climbs into the bed, wrapping his arms around Roger, who feels unusually warm. They're silent for a minute.

"I'm sorry, Mark," Roger says in a small voice, and Mark can tell he's embarrassed. Mark smiles, hoping it transfers to his voice.

"It's okay."

He sees Roger nod, feels him shift and press his body a little closer into Mark's. And Mark watches the darkness, thinking. It's not like Roger is so sick tonight – it's not a danger night. And Maureen is sleeping right in the next room.

Mark sleeps about as much as Roger. That night is a bit of a revelation.


	3. Chapter 3

When Collins tells Mark that he's gotten a job at MIT, the breath leaves Mark's body in a swift exhalation. _Shit_.

"I know how things are with Roger – but this is a great opportunity, Mark. Really good job, influence, really good money." Collins grins. "When I think of the things I can get my hands on …"

"That's great," Mark says flatly, trying not to let any fear or anger or dismay come through in his voice. He is happy for Collins, he is. He's just wondering what's going to happen now.

"Mark, I swear to you if I actually thought I could help him – but he doesn't want it."

_But me_, Mark says silently. _I **need** you – just to get through._

Mark nods. He knows. And besides, Collins has the right to live his life. An obligation to himself. Mark understands this.

"I know."

"Just this week – how long was it this time – ?"

Life has begun being broken into only chapters of absence and then using. A chapter of the tight-lipped waiting ends and a new chapter of withdrawal begins. Mark is strongly reminded of a carousel.

_Round and round and round he goes …_

"Almost three weeks. Nineteen days."

Collins shakes his head. "That boy is killing himself."

Mark laughs bitterly, surprising himself. He needs to watch how much he lets out. "No shit."

Collins fixes him with a hard glare. "I need you to tell me if you need me or not, Mark. I need the truth."

"I'll be fine."

"If I find out you're lying to me, I'll kick your sorry pathetic ass all the way back to Scarsdale."

Mark smiles. "Asshole. Go. This will be great for you."

Collins flops down on the couch. "I leave next week."

Mark swallows. "What about Jamie?"

Collins shrugs, face a little closed off. "He wasn't too happy, but he doesn't want to come along, so – "

"Sorry."

Collins waves him off. "Hey, it's not right, it's not right. Someday." He smiles up at the ceiling and then looks back at Mark. "Don't worry – I'll put the fear of God into him before I go."

Mark laughs a little. "You already did long ago."

Collins grins. "He acts like such a fucking badass but I saw his eyes the night we met – and that night I caught him shooting up in the alley after one of his shows. It wasn't even a week after he'd moved in, and he was still scared shitless of me, but he had nowhere else to go." His face darkens suddenly. "Fucking dirty needles. Hauled him up by the scruff of his jacket and dragged him home. Told him right then he had to get clean if he wanted to stay."

They both lapse into silence, and Mark slides onto the table, watching Collins. He doesn't smile.

"Maybe even God can't do it."

Collins looks over at him. "But Roger can."

Mark looks away, lump in his throat. He's not so sure anymore.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

"Mark?"

Mark turns at Maureen's hesitant voice, quickly scanning his brain for anything he might have done to make her sound like that, but he can't think of anything. They've settled into a routine of living together and being together, and it's the closest thing to perfect Mark has had in his life in a long time. He hopes he hasn't unknowingly done something to fuck it up.

"What?" He smiles and walks over, standing in front of her, pressing her against the kitchen counter. She smiles back, and he reaches up and tangles his hand in her hair, relieved. She's so fucking beautiful. 

"Wanna go dancing tonight?"

Mark thinks. They haven't been dancing since that night he found Roger in the bathroom. His heart clutches a little at the memory, and he knows he doesn't want to go dancing.

"Sure."

She grins, leaning up and kissing him. His stomach drops a little, and god it feels good, losing himself in her just a little bit. It's not just liking having a girlfriend around, though – he genuinely likes this girl who's so spirited and fiery and funny. Every night she comes home smelling of coffee and no matter what's gone on – if Roger has been sick or silent or, god help him, cloudy-eyed and calm – Maureen will climb into bed and wrap herself around him, all soft and sweet and hard and demanding all at once, and for that little while things are okay. Mark still feels a little dizzy when he's around her.

"Thank you, baby," she says and pecks him once again on the mouth, a little too quickly for his tastes, and he grabs her as she starts to walk away, pulling her back against his chest. 

"Not so fast," he murmurs into her hair, breathing deep and nuzzling the space where her shoulder meets her neck.

"I've got to get to work," Maureen giggles, and Mark tightens his hold on her, shaking his head.

"Not yet," he tells her, bringing up one hand to brush her hair away from her neck and caressing her stomach with the other. He leans down, kissing her shoulder, letting himself be lost in the taste of her skin. These are the moments he lives for. "Not just yet."

- - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - -

Mark really wanted to enjoy tonight, he did. He was ready for it and told himself over and over again that he couldn't be expected to stay with Roger in the loft every single moment of every fucking day. It's an impossibility.

But here he is, dancing with Maureen, their arms around each other, and bright lights flashing around them. No matter where you glance there's something to look at but all Mark can see is Roger and a bathtub.

Finally he has to pull himself from Maureen's embrace. "Fuck," he whispers to himself. He can already feel the coolness building up between them, and he hasn't even said anything yet.

"Mark? Baby?"

He leans in close and calls that he has to go home. He's sorry, he's so sorry, but he's worried.

She looks at him, and to him she looks wounded, turning away from him.

"I'm going to stay and dance."

He nods eagerly and leans down to kiss her soundly. Anything for her to be happy. Anything for her to not leave, take her light away from his dark.

"Have fun," he calls, and then hesitates, looking around before leaning in quickly again, near her ear and feeling her damp hair slide against his cheek. "I love you."

He rears back, sees her slightly stunned look, and gives an almost sheepish grin before giving a little wave and jogging away. The smile doesn't leave his face as he walks through the still-cold streets – early spring now is really just an extension of late winter. Looking up at the streetlights, his feet hurrying, Mark shivers a little.

"Hey, buddy, got a light?"

Mark looks over to the origin of the voice and quickly shakes his head, avoiding eye contact and hurrying on. Two guys, skinnier than him and with the look of Roger. They're sick and sick is never good when you're hurrying down a New York street alone.

It's barely a second before he feels the leg connecting with his ankle and he's flying forward only to hit the cement, teeth clacking painfully. Mark tastes the warm copperyness in his mouth and braces himself, but no more blows come. Hands digging in the pockets of his jacket. Mark manages a bitterly amused grimace. Go on, look for money. Maybe they'd end up lending him a couple bucks.

_Good fucking luck, you fucking junkie assholes._

There's an explosion against his ribs and Mark instinctively curls inwards. But he realizes how lucky he is when the two guys just take off. It had just been a perfunctory kick, just one last burst of machismo so the dickheads wouldn't feel they'd completely wasted their energy.

Slowly getting to his feet, Mark shakes his head and carefully rests a hand on his side, wincing a little at the slight burn. He could go back to the club – he hasn't gotten that far from it. Surely after this Maureen would come with him. Or he could simply continue on his way home to check on Roger.

With a nagging voice in the back of his head asking why he was making this decision, Mark continues towards the loft and all the darkness and sickness it holds. He just needs to check on Roger, that's all.

That was more important than what Mark wanted right now. And he did want to go to the club and find Maureen. Of course he did.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

Roger lays in bed, physically still but mind racing. He holds his hands over his chest, every so often clenching them in the soft material of his sweatshirt. It feels somewhat grounding; just as he starts to feel his mind sliding back into bad times, into his fears and his heart, he tightens his fingers around the fabric and is able to breathe again.

He's determined to make it this time. He's alone, and he can do this. He _needs_ to do this. If only to prove that nothing has that much of a hold on him – that he is free and unfettered and in control.

Roger takes a deep breath. It isn't true. He's not in control, at all, he's holding on by the very ends of his goddamn fingertips.

Things are starting to come back to him. Not just the bad memories, though sometimes now he wakes with a start, already breathless and sweating. There are so many things he doesn't want to think about – that he doesn't want to exist. His life is a trap now and he's struggling as best as he can to not fall in.

Anger is still elusive, and it still surprises him, in that mild way he feels everything these days when he isn't high. He wonders if that's keeping him longing for the drugs – not just for the calm but for enough of a shield so that he can start to safely _feel_ things again.

Roger groans, grasping at his shirt and turning over in bed sharply. He just wants things to be calm and easy and unhurting. He wants to be able to pick up his fucking guitar again. That can't be too much to ask. It's not that his skin is crawling – it's that everything his skin is holding in wants to get _out_.

_Mark._

Mark is a very dangerous-feeling thought these days. Roger can't really pinpoint when it happened, but suddenly he finds that he wants Mark in his room instead of wishing he would just leave him alone.

Roger hadn't really wanted anyone around him for a long time. They were there, they were people, they were keeping him in the loft. But then Collins became Collins again and Mark became …

Not Mark. Not like he used to be, anyway. Now …

Now Mark is starting to feel a little bit like a longing. Like seeing his face is a good thing and feeling him in his bed at night –

Roger turns again, banging his head into his pillow and wishing it were a wall. Everything is overpoweringly frightening. He's not sure why but he damn well feels it.

Ever since that night – ever since seeing April that way and ever since his life had cleanly been sliced into a before and an after – he hasn't been feeling. Hasn't been thinking. Something in him had curled in on itself and let him just be nothing for a while.

But now when he sees Mark he feels things stirring in him. And he hasn't felt anything – really _felt_ – since April. And every time something like that rises up in him he feels a little bit of her, captures another sliver of memory. Maybe he shouldn't be feeling this way – he never thought he would again. Maybe, he thinks, maybe he _can't_. Maybe it will just hurt too much and burn too much and _be_ too much.

Roger feels close enough to the edge already – close enough to snapping and just losing everything. And every time he looks at Mark now it's like laying his palm on burning metal. 

Yes, feelings are coming back. For so long life, himself, it was all just – a mess. A fucking catatonic mess – surrounded by a cloud he couldn't and didn't have to see through. But now it's starting again –

And if he was that much of a fucking mess when he was closed off, Roger wonders, how bad is it going to be when he starts letting everything in again?

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

By the time Mark enters the loft he's burning. An absolutely uncontrollable fury is consuming him even as he throws off his jacket and stalks into the loft, not even sure if Roger is home and now barely caring.

It's too much. It's all too fucking much. He's hurting and he has no money and no job and no ideas and Maureen is back at the club and Collins is leaving and Benny is gone and Roger is probably out shooting up –

Mark growls, spinning in place, so fucking angry and so fucking helpless he just wants to rip at his own skin. He walks over to the window, looking out at New York, where there are so many people and not one he can talk to or be with or have to understand him. Not one. 

Another wave of fury hits him and he has to get it out somehow so he just lunges forward and rams his fist into the large wooden sill. There's a slow blossoming of pain through his hand, heat and hurt that make him think that if he brings his hand to his eyes it will be covered in blood.

"Fuck," he whispers, staring at his hand, unbleeding but throbbing. He wonders if he's broken it.

"Fuck," he says, turning in a slow circle. "Fuck!" He kicks at the sofa, kicks it again when it doesn't hurt. "_Fuck!_"

"Mark?"

Mark whirls to see Roger standing in the doorway of his room, looking at him seriously. 

"You okay?"

Mark laughs bitterly and Roger quickly comes forward. "Your lip is bleeding. What happened?"

Mark tries to take a deep breath, count to ten, but it doesn't work. "Some dickless assholes tried to mug me but, surprise! No fucking money." He reaches his hand to his face, touches his lip, calming a little as he feels the slightly crusty blood. "Shit. They fucked me up a little more than I thought."

There's a pause as they stare at each other. A ghost of a smile skirts across Roger's face. "Well, finishing the job yourself isn't helping anyone. Come on."

Still pissed, still feeling petulant and childish and embarrassed, Mark follows Roger, only feeling a little bit of wonder and curiosity at this sudden reversal. He raises his eyebrows when Roger leads him into the bathroom.

"Sit," he says, nodding at the toilet seat. Mark sits, quietly staring as Roger turns on the water in the sink and grabs a washcloth. He turns to Mark, still looking serious, and crouches in front of him.

"Does it hurt?"

Mark shakes his head, and Roger carefully leans forward, gently running the cloth over Mark's mouth. Their eyes meet a moment and Mark can feel his heartbeat, is incredibly aware of the blood pulsing through him, and Roger smiles a little – that tiny smile that still seems new – and turns back to the sink to rinse out the cloth.

"Why am I always the one getting mugged?" Mark grumbles, eyes cast down in an effort to calm himself.

Roger chuckles lightly, and it really is a beautiful sound. Mark is shocked at how much lighter it makes him feel. 

"Because you're pale and skinny and you wear corduroy, for god's sake. Next time you go out you should wear my leather," Roger says, gently pressing the cool dampness of the cloth to Mark's mouth again. "At least try to look like a badass." He quirks a little grin. "Then the little pricks might think twice about messing with you."

Mark smiles a little, and then meets Roger's gaze again. This moment of caretaking is making it seem a little like old times, like there is safety and fun and friendship here.

But other things have popped up this past while and Mark suddenly feels heat flooding his body. He's not wishing Maureen was here, even though he knows he loves her. This moment is Roger and this moment is perfect.

Mark breaks the eye contact and swallows, and Roger must sense something of what he's feeling and thinking because he pulls the cloth away and looks awkward.

"I don't have any cuts," he says defensively, and Mark smiles a little, shaking his head.

"That wasn't what I was thinking."

"Oh." Roger resumes wiping gently at his face. Mark resists the urge to reach up and grab Roger's arm. He doesn't know if it's because he wants Roger to stop or if what he wants is for Roger to keep doing it forever.

"There," Roger says softly, straightening and tossing the washcloth back onto the sink. Mark stands up, bringing a hand to his mouth and running his tongue over the split in his lip.

"Thanks," he says, not looking at Roger, feeling a little afraid to. Feeling like Roger could tell just by looking at him what he's feeling and thinking. It's not like he hasn't before.

There's a silence, and Mark can't help looking up. Roger is staring at him intently, and Mark fidgets a little before lowering his head again and trying to silently brush past his friend and out of the bathroom.

Roger reaches out a hand and grasps Mark's arm. Mark looks up, nervous suddenly, uneasy. Roger's smile is gone, seriousness taking over his face again.

"It's nothing," he says quietly, and Mark thinks it's probably his imagination but it seems like Roger is leaning a little closer, his head dipping lower, closer to Mark's. He searches Roger's face for any sign of – anything. Any clue to what's going on here. Any clue to help Mark figure out what he's feeling.

Roger's eyes are looking a little wild and frightened, he's looking too serious and Mark's starting to feel a little scared.

"Roger?"

"Sorry," Roger whispers, and then he leans down a little more and his lips are on Mark's.

Mark's eyes widen and he freezes up as he feels Roger's lips move over his. He can't let this happen. He can't kiss Roger when it could change everything and change is the last thing either of them needs. He can't give in to these feelings, to the dropping of his stomach when Roger so suddenly closed the distance between them. It would be wrong, so wrong.

But Roger's lips are on his. And Mark can't help but feel. Can't help but notice all this want he didn't even know he had rising up in him. And when he feels Roger pull back, just for an instant, he feels the fear.

So when Roger's lips return to his, he can't help but kiss back.

For a few moments, everything is right like it's never been before. They're breathing each other's air when they think to breathe at all and Roger's arms are around Mark, clinging to him, and Mark is holding Roger's face in his hands as they open up to each other.

But one of Mark's hands slide back, running through Roger's soft hair, and Roger gasps and pulls back.

"Roger?"

He's looking panicked again, stricken, and he pulls away, pushing Mark back into the bathroom and shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says, and he whirls and within seconds the door to his bedroom is slammed shut.

Shaken, cold, and having trouble breathing, Mark stumbles backwards until his legs bang into the toilet and he falls down onto it again, legs weak and hands trembling and this whole other world he never really expected now opened up before him.

He leans forward and drops his head into his hands, and sits that way for a long time.

- - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - -

Roger stands in his room against his door, resting his forehead on the cool wood.

_Oh, god._

Why did he do it? Why? Mark was … Mark was the only steady strong thing in his life since … since he could remember. And he'd fucked it up.

Roger knocked his head against the door and then walked over to his bed, head throbbing. Shit. His heart was still pounding and his fingertips were tingling in that way that made him feel like his whole body was about to just implode. Why had he done it? Why had he risked the only person who had stuck by him?

There were too many feelings, too many burnings, just like he'd feared. His chest was too full, there was too much pain, too much pleasure, too much, too soon, he can't have touches, he can't have that light feeling in his chest or it all comes back to him, right from the beginning, right up to the end. His heart and body aren't big enough for it anymore.

Roger flops onto his bed, clutching at his head and roughly rubbing his face. He wants Mark to come in and lay beside him – even if it might be weird now. Part of him even wants to fake that he's cold to get Mark in here.

But it doesn't seem like it's a good idea. It seems much too frightening, all of a sudden. Besides, he thinks. He doesn't deserve to have that feeling after all he's done.

Everything is too overwhelming and now, thanks to him, everything is questions. Soon it's all too much for him and he has to go out looking for the only answer he knows.

- - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - -

Two nights later Mark is on the floor with Maureen, lights from the city spilling in through the window behind him. Collins had gone to bed not long after Maureen got home from work, and then they'd made love – after which Maureen had cuddled into his body and almost immediately fallen asleep. And then the sounds had started.

His stomach clenching, Mark stays where he is. Roger's been sick before. And he fucking well brought it on himself. He can deal with it – maybe if he suffers a little bit he won't be so anxious next time to get to the drugs.

Mark bites his lip. God, that was a terrible thing to think. Obviously Roger has had enough suffering. Mark drills it into his brain: That's not what this is about. That's not what this is about.

But he's still pissed.

So he doesn't pull away from the warmth of Maureen's body and he tries to close out the sounds coming from the bathroom, alternating between feeling guilty and a drunken kind of anger, slipping and again chanting that Roger's done this to himself.

He went into Roger's room yesterday, bringing in Roger's pills, and there were the cloudy eyes again. Mark, feeling confused and hurt and still with that _want_ that Roger had awakened, had had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out. Words or fists, it wouldn't have mattered. Either would have satisfied and either could be disastrous.

"Fucking hell," Mark mutters through clenched teeth. "When, Roger? When did you even fucking manage to get out?"

Roger just looks at him, kind of dazedly, and then turns away. And Mark suddenly has an image of the fire escape in his mind. The fucking fire escape. He's always listening for the scrape of the loft's door but the window opens with hardly a squeak.

"Shit," Mark breathes, knowing now he's going to have to hone his listening skills. He grabs at Roger, pulls him up and shoves the pills in Roger's face. 

"Here," Mark growls, and then tries to regulate his voice. "Take your fucking AZT."

Mark rails at himself a little while Roger clumsily and slowly brings his hand up, takes the pills, and pops them into his mouth. He takes a drink from the glass Mark has brought in, swallowing, and Mark wonders why he always calls it AZT. He can never just say that they're pills. He has to constantly remind them both of exactly what's going on here.

It's like a punishment.

Mark turns slightly now, nestling a little closer to Maureen and throwing an arm over her stomach. Why? Why does Roger keep doing it? It's so stupid, every time there's even a day when Roger doesn't use Mark feels hope rising within him. But it keeps crashing down around him and he doesn't know why he bothers.

Although it feels like if he ever stopped hoping the world would somehow end.

Mark shakes his head, trying to lose his thoughts, trying to be sleepy, trying not to think of the other night and Roger and the bathroom and –

Mark's eyes widen and he whispers a quick curse. Fuck. That's it. It was a test. And Mark has no idea what it is he's failed at, but he knows. That's what it was. And Roger couldn't handle … whatever had went on. Whatever that was that happened between them – it was too much for him. Fuck, it was too much for _Mark_ to handle. And Roger had gone for the drugs.

Mark winces, pain in his chest. Roger's coughing now, a distant echoing burst of misery and now all of Mark's anger is gone as if it never existed in the first place. Mark slides away from Maureen a bit, leans forward and swallows as he gently kisses her shoulder. He can't handle this. He can't. All this pain and anger and fear and fucking _love_ – it's too goddamned much.

Mark slowly stands, stretches, and then quietly heads toward the light coming from underneath the bathroom door.


	4. Chapter 4

Mark is standing outside Roger's door and clutching a mug of coffee. A week later and the sickness is mostly gone, though Mark knows Roger hasn't really slept. He figures caffeine can't really hurt anyway, and the comfort and normalcy of coffee might make Roger feel a little bit better.

Mark doesn't feel angry now. Every time he feels it rising up he's bombarded with images and sensations – Roger's face staring at the bathtub and warm dry lips against his. The anger usually disappears pretty damn quickly. 

Sighing lightly, Mark knocks on Roger's door and walks in, coming over to stand beside the bed and placing the coffee on the squat unpainted dresser beside his bed. "Thought you might like some coffee."

Roger looks up, seeming a little surprised. "Thanks."

Mark sits on the bed, next to Roger's body. "You're welcome. Do you need anything else?"

Roger shakes his head, and Mark looks down, struggling to not let anything show on his face. He's determined to act as normal as he can, straining to think of some way to let Roger know that nothing has changed, everything is okay, Mark is as safe as he's always been – without actually saying anything.

"Actually …" Roger looks up at him, into Mark's eyes, and Mark feels a jolt. 

_Careful. _

"Do … do we have any cigarettes?"

Mark hides a grin. This is good. Roger hasn't wanted a smoke in ages.

"We don't, but I can get some."

He starts to stand, but Roger reaches out and takes his hand, looking up at him. Mark can't help but close his eyes, just for a second, trying so hard to keep a hold on everything. 

"Can't Collins?"

"I guess he can," Mark says, thinking. He grins a little to himself. "Might as well take advantage of the bastard while we still can."

Roger looks up sharply, and Mark is confused for a moment.

"Oh!" Mark nearly cries out as Roger's grasp tightens on his hand. God, Roger should know better. "Fuck, Roger, no, that's not what I – I forgot that you didn't know. Collins got a job offer from MIT."

A stricken look passes over Roger's face. Mark wants to reach out to him but the twisting of his stomach tells him not to.

"Is he leaving?"

Mark nods, eyes locked with Roger's. "Day after tomorrow."

The other boy's expression gradually neutralizes, tired and blank. Mark turns away and Roger's hand slides off of his. There's a long moment of silence, and Mark can feel that, for the moment, Roger is gone. But he was there for a moment – he _was_. Mark shivers a little bit, hoping this won't mean another round of drugs and withdrawal. This time. This time Roger will be able to stay.

"Well," Mark says, swallowing uncomfortably. "I – I can go get those cigarettes, now, if you like …"

Roger nods slowly, looking down at his lap. He doesn't reach out for Mark again, and Mark turns and leaves, taking only a moment to grab his jacket and let Collins know where he's going.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Collins is sitting with Maureen on the couch when Mark returns, windswept and red-cheeked. They look at him and simultaneously start giggling. Mark would be a little pissed, after the day he's had, if they both didn't look so damn cute. 

"What?" he asks, smiling almost reluctantly, and Collins snorts and stands up.

"Maureen and I were just bonding." Maureen giggles again, a hand over her mouth and eyes sparkling mischievously at Mark. "We decided that you need to have a night."

"A night?" Mark asks, sliding off his jacket and gloves and unraveling his scarf. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Collins says, grinning, digging in his pocket, "That you are as tightly wound as a fucking slinky. You need to blow off some steam."

Collins walks over, still grinning, and hands Mark a wad of bills. "Me and Maureen have started up a Get Mark Cohen Drunk fund. Congratulations, you're our very first beneficiary."

Maureen laughs, eyes on Collins. Mark feels himself grinning, pleased they're getting along so well.

"Okay," he says, looking from the bills in his hands up to Collins's face. "This is great. Thank you."

Collins leans in close. "I'll talk to him. And you really do need to just let go for a little while." His eyes slide towards Maureen. "I think she needs it, too. Walking in on all this shit can't be easy."

Collins pulls away and raises his voice. "So you go out and get the girl drunk."

Maureen laughs again, looking so happy, and jumps up, walking over to Mark and wrapping her arms around his waist, smiling up into his face.

"No, I'm going to get him drunk and take advantage of him." She stretches up and captures Mark's mouth, kissing him firmly and giving his lips the tiniest of licks before stepping away. "And he's going to love every minute."

Collins, amused, glances at Mark. "I bet."

"Shut up, Collins," Mark grins, and he feels the lightest he has in a while. Maureen takes his hand and starts pulling him towards the loft door.

Mark grabs his jacket on the way, still being pulled, grinning. But he can't help looking back at Collins one last time. 

"He didn't know – I just told him today – "

Collins shakes his head. "Mark. Go. I've got it under control."

Mark nods, smiles tightly, but he can't help feeling even lighter. And then Maureen has him out the door and is pulling him down the stairs, and saying coyly how much fun they're going to have, she might even only dance with _him_, and Mark lets himself slide forward. Lets himself forget.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Collins turns towards Roger's room with a sigh. He doesn't want to leave Roger, and he doesn't want to have this conversation. Most of all, he wants to not have one of his best friends in the world sick and strung out on drugs. Collins squares his shoulders. Like it or not, this is what the reality is – and somebody needs to get Roger to deal with it. 

When he opens Roger's door, Roger doesn't turn over to greet him and Collins's heart clutches. Stupid kid. Collins can't believe that some shithead kid he found beat up in front of the building could work his way into his heart so much. He looks so sick and thin and wasted – Collins knows that if he keeps this up much longer, it's all going to be over much sooner than it should be. 

"Roger."

Roger doesn't show he's even heard Collins. Not a movement, not a sound. Collins gets a little pissed. 

"You know, asshole, there's more than one way to kill yourself. You don't need a fucking razor."

Roger doesn't sit up, but he looks at Collins for a split second, eyes blazing. "Fuck you."

"No, fuck _you_. Face the facts, Roger. If you're going to do it, at least acknowledge what it is you're attempting."

Roger's face stills, backing away and closing off. Collins can see it, and he knows what it could potentially lead to.

"You know every time you do it, it's gonna be that much harder to quit."

Roger speaks flatly, not really connecting. "Can't help it."

Collins's eyes flash. "Fuck that. You have no control over anything in your life, Roger – except for how you choose to live it. And you keep fucking choosing the drugs. The guys from the band call every Monday like clockwork – "

"I don't care anymore."

"We care. And we – I'm going, but Mark can't take much more of this."

Roger shrugs, stubborn impassivity on his face.

"You can go to a rehab, get clean – call your mom – "

Roger looks at him with a vengeance then, sitting up sharply, eyes burning. "I _can't_." He falls back down onto his pillow. "I've done enough to her."

Collins waves his hand around. "You think this isn't doing anything to her? You're fucking rotting yourself away in this goddamned loft – "

Roger's face is closed again as he spits out his words. "My choice."

Collins slumps. He hates getting angry like this – hates feeling badly towards the people he loves, hates having to chew them out, hates it when they act so goddamned fucking _stupid_.

"You can choose to not take the drugs, Roger," he repeats tiredly. "Because if you don't – "

"What? I'll _die_? I'll speed up the wasting process by a few measly fucking mon–"

"He'll leave," Collins says simply, and Roger falls quiet. Collins gives him a hard look before turning and walking out the door.

"He'll get sick of your shit, he'll pack his bags, and he'll leave."

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Mark smiles at the hazy light spilling into the loft. He feels – happy.

He hardly dares to believe it.

Last night Maureen and he had drank and danced until early morning, and true to her word, Maureen had only danced with him, only sat with and talked to him at the bar, and it felt like the whole world was only about him and that she felt that way, too, like all she wanted in the whole world was to be with Mark. 

They'd staggered drunkenly into the loft he didn't know when, falling haphazardly onto the blankets on the floor and then kissing for what seemed like hours. They finally fell asleep and now Mark is waking up to sunlight and Maureen's hair spilling over his chest. He's going to have to thank them – both Maureen and Collins, for all they've done for him, and just in that one night. 

Mark hears a small noise and raises up a bit, turning his head. He's surprised to see Roger standing at the counter of the kitchen area.

"Hey," he says softly, not wanting to wake Maureen.

"Hey," Roger greets him, staring at him seriously. "You want some coffee?"

Already he's doubted his mind twice this morning. He's not quite able to process all this good feeling and normalcy. Roger is asking him if he wants coffee. Mark nearly laughs with the normalcy of it, the absurdity. But it still feels good.

"Yeah," he says, "That would be great."

Roger gives a little nod and turns around, and starts making coffee. Mark's heart is pounding almost painfully in his chest, and he's telling himself to calm the fuck down. It's just coffee. It doesn't mean Roger is better.

_Calm down. _

When the coffee is ready, Roger walks over with the mugs in his hands and looks down at Mark, still tangled with Maureen. He averts his eyes.

"…You wanna come into my room? Talk?"

Mark catches himself staring and starts a little, then nods. Roger wants to talk. Okay. He gets up, holding his breath until he sees that he hasn't woken Maureen. Then he follows Roger into his room.

Roger holds up a mug of coffee from his place on the bed, which Mark takes before sliding into his usual place beside the door and against the wall.

Mark takes a sip of the burning liquid, feeling suddenly unsure and even a little shy. He's not sure how to act. Be normal, he knows to be normal … but what is normal around Roger? He's never had to think about it before. He doesn't really know what to say – he doesn't want to bring up that it's been nine days now, for fear of jinxing it, or somehow shaking it out of existence. After a moment, remembering with an unpleasant jolt, Mark finally speaks.

"Benny was here."

Roger looks up, his brow furrowed. "Oh, yeah? When? What did the asshole want?"

Mark's a little shocked. "What? Why – "

And there's that little smile again – one corner of Roger's mouth pushed up just a little, in a tiny sarcastic grin. "Don't think I'm gonna forgive him for leaving you to deal …" Roger pauses. "Well. With me. Don't think I'll forgive him for pushing all this on your shoulders."

Roger lifts the cup to his lips, and Mark hides the smile that's threatening to come out. He lets just a little show on his face. "He's getting married."

Roger lets the cup fall back to his lap, almost spilling some of the burning liquid. "Shit! What? Are you serious? Who?"

Mark grins, and answers as if he's asking a question. "Um, Allison Grey?"

And Roger _laughs_. He actually laughs, and Mark can feel the warmth spreading through him as if he were covered in coffee, can feel that other side that he's not been letting himself imagine for so long.

"He actually got Muffy?"

Mark scrunches his face. "Huh?"

"Muffy – Allison." Roger explains. "Benny has been scamming on that chick – and her daddy – for ages."

"Really." Mark says, thinking back to his conversation with Benny. "That's interesting."

"Yeah," Roger says, stretching his back a little. "I can't believe he actually got the little priss to agree to marry him. She refused to come here, you know."

Mark had thought he and Benny had been the better friends, not Benny and Roger. "Seriously?"

Roger nods. "And he gave up on the book."

Mark bites his lip. "No fucking way."

"Yeah. Apparently Mr. Grey – his new sugar daddy – was working him a little too hard. Didn't have enough time anymore." Roger pauses, then chuckles. "Man. Benny getting married to Muffy. That's gonna work out _real_ well."

Mark smiles, leaning his head against the wall. "It's no more ridiculous than a veritable rock god spending all his time with a nerdy filmmaker."

Roger looks at him. "You're not nerdy, Mark. You're smart. Be glad you are," he says, looking faraway, and Mark can feel them slipping, is desperate to hold onto this feeling they've built up in Roger's room, a taste of their old ease and friendship.

"Benny asked me to be his best man."

Roger looks back at him, in the same room again. "You're joking."

Mark shakes his head, breathing again. "Nope. I'm gonna tell him no."

Roger chuckles again. "I should be offended. But I suppose there was no way in hell he could've have asked me."

"Why not?"

Roger smirks. Mark hasn't seen that for a while, either. "Because Benny knows I would have fucked her before he got a chance to."

Mark laughs a little. "You're so full of it."

Roger grins wolfishly. "You know a chick like that – with a daddy like that – is gonna be waiting until her wedding night. To fuck the groom, anyway."

Mark laughs again, shaking his head, loving every minute of this. After striving for normalcy for so long, this actual easy normalness is almost too wonderful.

But even as Mark feels this, he can see Roger leaving again, can see that distant look in his eyes. "Not that I could." He looks over at Mark. "Have sex with her, I mean."

Mark doesn't break eye contact, looking straight at Roger. "That's not true, and you know it. Collins has sex all the time." He forces a chuckle. "We've both heard enough disturbing details to know."

Roger looks to the side. "It's different for me, Mark. That … It wasn't just – " Roger sighs, running a hand through his hair. "April took that with her, too."

Mark sits up, rigid in his fear and sudden desperation. "That's _not true_," he insists, willing Roger to look at him again. "I know you feel that way now, but … but people love you, and will love you. I – "

Roger holds up a restraining hand. "Don't, Mark," he says, and his voice is saying there's danger ahead, but Mark just ignores it. He feels like he has to. "You can't understand."

"Roger – "

"Just go, Mark," Roger interrupts him, finally looking at him again, his face pinched. "Please, just get out, go."

Mark shakes his head firmly, still trying to connect with Roger's eyes. "Roger, I'm not going to – "

But Roger jumps up and in one quick stride has Mark's arm in his hand, surprisingly strong as he yanks Mark upwards and pushes him towards the door, coffee spilling to the floor. "You won't go on your own? Fine, I'll show you the door," he says harshly, and forces Mark right out.

Mark turns around, tries to speak, tries to think of how to recapture that feeling from only moments before, but Roger's face is closed and he's closing the door.

"And thank you for visiting Roger's den of death," he says bitterly, before the door slams right in Mark's stunned face.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

_Fuck_.

Roger's sitting on his bed, hands against his stomach and feeling sick. So he finally felt a little of that anger he's been expecting. Not a lot, but enough.

_Enough to hurt Mark._

"Fuck!" Roger puts in the energy for a shout, but it comes out as practically a whisper. He angrily clears his throat.

Why the fuck did he do that? Pushing away the one person … the one person … He'd been trying, he'd wanted so bad to be normal for Mark and try, just try, to make things up, even the littlest bit …

Roger jumps up, feeling agitated, and then stops. There's nowhere for him to go. If he leaves the loft now, he knows where he's going to end up. 

Slowly lowering himself back onto his bed, Roger tries not to think. Nine days. Nine days nine days nine days nine days nine days nine days nine days nine days ….

Roger takes a deep breath, covering his eyes with his hand. He can almost hear April's voice, can almost hear her saying that she loves him, that she's sorry. 

But Roger knows, shakes his head infinitesimally in the loneliness of his room. She has nothing to be sorry for.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The next morning when Mark goes a little nervously to collect Roger's laundry, he takes a sharp breath, heart pounding, body just gone.

Roger's not here. 

Mark drops his big laundry bag, turns in place, looking around frantically. He's been waiting for this, he knew Collins leaving would set off another round, he thought he was ready, but shit, he's _not_, Roger was doing so good –

Mark starts a light jog through the loft, trying to feel hopeful despite the evidence. Maybe he's in the bathroom, in Mark's room, maybe for whatever reason he's decided to crash on the couch, maybe this is a good thing, maybe he'll bring out his guitar …

Mark stops, squinting out the loft window. All the air leaves his body in a relieved whoosh, and he stands there a few minutes, trying to collect himself, before climbing out the window and onto the fire escape.

Roger looks up, cigarette burnt almost all the way down and dangling from his fingertips. "Oh, hey, Mark."

Mark turns suddenly into his mother and almost laughs. _Don't you 'oh, hey Mark' **me**!_

Mark sits beside Roger on the top stair, forcing himself to relax and let go of the fear that had gripped him. He wants to ask Roger what he's doing out here, what's going on, but he knows by now not to.

"Hey. It's freezing out here – you wanna come back inside?"

Roger shakes his head. "It's not that bad – besides, I couldn't stand another minute in that goddamned loft." He takes a quick drag, blows the smoke out slowly. "I just needed to get out for a minute."

Mark is surprised by the dread this inspires. Isn't this what they've all been wanting? For Roger to leave his room, the loft, start living again? But Mark feels terrified by these words.

"Mind if I stay with you?" he asks, and Roger silently shakes his head, looking out over the buildings around them. Mark stays quiet then, too, just watching Roger smoke and look out to the sky.

Mark swallows, feeling this silence in every part of his body. There was a time when silence didn't exist whenever Roger was around. Mark wants some of that back, a little, the boy who constantly played music and talked loud and laughed. These memories always seem to assault him in the silence.

Mark looks up, sees a faraway bird streak across the sky. Maybe after having Roger so close, he's afraid to lose him again. To lose that closeness, that dependency Roger has on him now. Mark doesn't think he's that selfish, but it could be part of it.

No, Mark thinks, leaning back on his hands and looking at Roger, that's not it. Roger has been hurt so much – and Mark can't turn his face from the fact that a lot of that hurt has been Roger's own doing.

Roger grinds his cigarette on the black mesh beside him and looks back at Mark seriously, staring at him for just a moment.

"I'm gonna go back in now," he says, starting to stand. Mark nods and follows him through the window, unable to keep his eyes off the body in front of him.

He just doesn't want him to be hurt anymore.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark can hear Maureen's delighted laughter before he's even opened the loft door. He grins, bag of laundry in hand.

"There's no way! I could never!"

"Aw, come on, sweetheart. Everything's better naked."

Mark enters the loft and sees Maureen beside Collins on the couch, giggling so hard she can barely speak.

"You are so much more worse than me," she says when she can catch some breath. "I have my limits."

Collins laughs loud. "Girl, you don't fool me, I've seen what you wear. It's not that much of a leap."

Mark chuckles at Maureen's mock outrage, dropping his bag and walking over to them. "What are you guys talking about?"

Maureen leans on Collins's shoulder and looks up at him, eyes sparkling. "Did you know Collins ran through the Parthenon, naked?"

Mark grins wryly as he flops down beside Maureen. "I may have heard something about it once or twice."

Collins, his head resting on top of Maureen's, turns to grin at Mark. "You know you're just jealous."

"Of what?"

"Well, A, that you couldn't get a piece of this."

Mark snorts, and Maureen bursts into more laughter, putting her hand on Mark's thigh.

"And, B, that you couldn't run anywhere naked if Antonioni himself asked you to."

"I could, too."

Collins joins Maureen in her laughter then, and it rings through the loft. Mark can't help thinking what a perfect send-off for Collins this is – laughter to say goodbye. He laughs, too, and waggles his eyebrows.

"I might have even already done it."

Collins stops laughing. "I don't believe it."

Mark nods at him, desperately serious. "I have photographic evidence."

Collins's eyes widen, and Mark has to bite back his grin, but after only a few seconds it's spreading across his face.

"I might have been a little young," he concedes, laughing when Collins heaves a pillow at him, "But my mother has shown that picture to every potential girlfriend I've ever had."

"Explains about how they stayed potential." 

Mark laughs again, putting an arm around Maureen when she transfers from Collins's shoulder to his.

"What you never hear about when Collins talks about the Parthenon is the three days he spent starved in an underground jail."

Collins laughs raspishly. "I was naked, they had shoes. It was only a matter of time before I got caught. Greece isn't quite as loose as I would have anticipated."

Maureen giggles again, leaning a little more heavily into Mark. "I'm sorry you're leaving."

Collins smiles. "I am, too, baby. But hopefully I'll get to make a couple trips home." He looks over to Mark. "I'll make it work somehow for Christmas. I promise."

Mark nods, smiling even as his heart clutches. What will Christmas be like this time? One year …

At this moment there's a noise and all heads turn towards Roger, who is standing there tentatively, as if unsure if he should be there or not. Collins holds out a hand.

"Wasn't sure I'd have the pleasure," he says, smiling a little more gently. "You gonna come over here, give me a hug goodbye?"

Roger stops, pauses. When he speaks his voice is cold. "I didn't think it was necessary. I know you're sick of my shit. Why pretend we care?"

The room stops. And Mark is fucking furious at Roger for ruining this moment.

"Roger!"

"It's not like I care that he's leaving."

"Roger – " Mark sits forward, danger sparking in his eyes, but Collins holds up a restraining hand to him.

"Roger, I'm not leaving you. I promise that's not what this is about. And I'll call all the time – "

"Did you not hear me? I don't fucking _care_," Roger says, turning back to his room now. "Besides, it's not like I didn't already know I wasn't worth sticking around for."

The door slams, and Collins falls into the back of the couch, looking stunned. But then he turns a little dazedly and sees Mark's face. He laughs, snapping back to himself.

"Take it easy, Mark, I haven't been shot."

"But – Collins – "

Collins shakes his head. "It's okay. I understand." He sighs a little, but he's still smiling. "I knew it could go this way."

Mark swallows, looking towards Roger's door. He could kill him with his bare hands right now, to hurt Collins like this. To have this be their goodbye.

"He loves you."

Collins gives him a look, and Mark knows he knows that Mark's trying to comfort himself as much as he's trying to comfort Collins. Maureen turns and nuzzles her face into Mark's neck, her arms around him.

Mark closes his eyes a minute, listening to the silence of the room and Maureen's breathing. He lifts his head a little reluctantly and looks over in time to see Collins checking his watch.

He looks at Mark. "I've gotta go if I want to catch my train."

Mark nods, grins a little sickly. "Shit. Are you – are you gonna be okay?"

Collins laughs, but he keeps his eyes steady on Mark. "It's not me I'm worried about."

Mark grins wryly, not really meeting Collins's gaze. "I think by now I've got a pretty good grasp on how to take care of him."

The look turns piercing. "I'm not talking about him, either. I want to know if you can take care of yourself."

Mark makes a face, rolls his eyes, and stands up with Maureen, and they all head towards the door of the loft.

But he never really answers.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes, darkness can be a comfort, Mark knows. You can hide in it and wrap yourself in it and let it keep all your secrets so you can let go of them for just a little while.

But then there are times when the darkness – it's a breathtakingly oppressive spectre whose only purpose, it seems, is to let you know just how alone in the world you really are.

This night, the night Collins leaves, it's that kind of darkness in the bedroom. Mark doesn't care that he finally has his own room, own blankets, own space and privacy and hideaway. He'd give anything right now to be lying on the hard floor of the loft. He'd give up filmmaking and dancing and drinking and Maureen – _anything_. Anything to have Collins back. 

Mark lies there, in that pressing darkness, and he remembers how his father would check for him, when he was very little and he insisted on it, to make sure there was nothing under his bed, nothing waiting for him outside the window. Mark doesn't want to – he doesn't give a shit what that bigoted sonofabitch thinks – but tonight he feels a twinge of pain he refuses to acknowledge. He doesn't care that it's only his mother who ever leaves messages now. He doesn't.

For a while it's possible to lie still, but then he's tossing and turning just a bit. Collins is gone. Fuck. He has no idea how he's gonna handle this. Or, more importantly, how _Roger_ is going to handle it.

10 days. Countdown to takeoff.

Or maybe landing.

Mark still can't believe he's investing himself so completely in these numbers that most likely will just disappear in a little while anyway. But he still counts, and he still holds his breath. Usually change means another dance with the drugs. But maybe this time … maybe ….

He wishes Maureen was here, that she didn't have to work a stupid fucking late shift tonight, of all nights. He wants the softness and comfort of her body pressing up against him. He wants to be able to reach out and hold her.

"Baby, it's just one late shift. I'll be home tomorrow night, and then every night until next week."

Mark had looked at her as if she were crazy, watching her get ready. "Can't you get out of it?"

"No," she says, shaking her head, her hair swinging and somewhat hiding her face. "We need the money."

"You can call in sick," Mark says, feeling a little desperate. He can still see Collins walking out the door. "You must have sick days."

Not meeting his eyes, Maureen walks around the apartment, grabbing keys and sweater and purse. "I'm sorry, baby, there's no one to cover for me. I just can't get out of it."

She straightens and looks at him, for just a moment, and when their eyes meet Mark understands. Collins leaving is too much for her, too. She _can't_ stay in the loft tonight.

And he can't leave it.

This, Mark thinks, remembering how he had turned away and attempted a casual shrug and tone, is why adults give kids stuffed animals. Because when the darkness gets to be too bad and there's no one around, you can hold onto something soft and tell them that things would be okay. Because sometimes when you're desperate for a protection, for safety, to be held … the next best thing is to give that to someone else.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Pacing quietly in the darkness of his room, Roger sometimes hops on the balls of his feet as he turns and runs his hands through his hair without even realizing he's doing it.

There are so many thoughts running through his mind he can barely hold onto their edges but one keeps coming back and back and back again.

Collins had wanted him to hug him goodbye. And he didn't do it. He'd been a bastard instead, and now he would give pretty much anything in the world to have that chance again.

He and Collins – Roger knows they don't have the luxury of angry goodbyes.

He falls onto his bed, almost misjudging the distance, almost hoping he does. Hoping that he'll fall on the floor and crack his fucking head open just to stop all these thoughts.

That panic is rising in his chest again, the kind that makes him tight and coiled and breathless and ready to run. But he forces himself to lay as still as possible, hands on his sweatshirt.

He can't help thinking of April, and with that the panic crescendos like thunder. It's making him frantic, making him scared, making him hurt. He needs to get out of here. For the first time in a long time – he can't even remember the last time – he can feel them coming. Hot wet tears that he doesn't want to give in to. They make everything too here and too now and too real.

Roger buries his head into his pillow, smothering the tears and his breath, trying to get control and forget for just a few minutes. Just enough to get his breath back.

He breathes, the heat returning to his face as he blows it out. He wishes, hard, that he was cold. As cold as he's ever been. That he was shaking and shivering beyond all human control. Because then he could get Mark in here, and despite all the discomfort and uncertainty between them now, he knows Mark would still put his arms around him.

And he really feels like he needs that right now. He wants someone to hold him. Mark. Collins. April.

God, he misses her.

His face is mashed into his pillow, still a little wet and probably tear-streaked, and he's sick and scared and embarrassed, so he doesn't turn around when he hears the barely audible click and senses the dull light spilling into his room. He just lays still and waits, barely breathing.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark stands in front of Roger's room for what must be half an hour, arms crossed and not knowing what to do. He can hear muffled sounds, and he doesn't want to … to intrude on anything. The last thing in the world he wants is to make things worse.

But then his hand seems to move forward almost of its own volition and he slowly opens Roger's door. He stands there, undecided again, sure that he's wrong, he's stupid, he's going to have to pretend he was sleepwalking, god he's an idiot …

After a while, Mark finally walks in, stepping hesitatingly. "Roger? I … I thought I heard …" He stops. "I thought maybe you were cold."

Roger doesn't turn over, but Mark can see him nodding in the darkness.

Mark shuffles a little bit, scared, still unsure if he should be doing this now. "Do you want …"

Roger nods again, silent, and Mark goes over and climbs into bed, sliding over to Roger and putting his arms around him, feeling that knot in his chest finally start to loosen. He takes a deep breath and tightens his hold, clinging to Roger in a way he hasn't let himself before. Mark feels his heart swelling in his chest, and for the first time he realizes how much these moments give him, as well. He lets himself realize it.

Mark lets his head fall forward, the side of his face sinking into the pillow. After a moment he nuzzles a bit into Roger's shoulder, chest feeling warm. He can feel the wetness.

And just before he drifts off to sleep, he can feel one of Roger's hands sliding over one of his.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The loft is comfortably warm, just warm enough to bring on a nice sleepiness. Mark is sitting on the couch, the line of his back pressed softly into the cushions and his head resting against its top. Maureen's head is in his lap, and he's slowly petting her as he stares unseeingly at the ceiling, a gentle half-smile on his face. He's so glad that she had a night off, and that she chose to spend it at home. With him.

And Roger hasn't used in nineteen days. Mark tries to not think about it too much, even as he unconsciously counts. Roger is still staying in his room all the time, barely ever wants to talk, and Mark has taken the chance and he and Maureen sleep together in Collins's bed. Their bed.

Sometimes he wonders, but every day he brings in Roger's AZT and every time – there's no sign of the drugs. Roger's quiet and silent and not who he used to be –

But it looks like he isn't using. Nineteen days again. Mark's not crazy enough to breathe a sigh of relief. But he does give himself a little more breathing room.

This delicious peace that Mark's just beginning to appreciate as he pets Maureen is shattered by the ringing of the phone. He groans when Maureen sits up and takes her warmth and softness from his lap. She throws him a quick grin and then bounds toward the phone.

"Stop!" Mark says, and her hand hovers just over the receiver. "See who it is first."

She makes a face at him. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I have a sense of adventure," he argues, the phone still ringing annoyingly. "It just doesn't show itself for something so unadventurous as a phone call. Especially one from my mother."

Maureen rolls her eyes and grins, picking up the phone as she stares at Mark.

"Hello?"

Her face breaks into a wicked grin. "Well, hi, honey! How the hell are you doing?"

Mark watches, amused at the overenthusiastic voice, wondering who it is. If it's his mother he's gonna have hell to pay.

Maureen rolls her eyes at Mark again. "No, sweetheart, I keep this particular decibel only for you."

Mark laughs, then grabs the phone that Maureen hands to him. "Benny."

Mark brings the phone to his ear, shaking his head, and somehow Benny knows that he's there before he speaks.

"That woman thinks the whole fucking world is her personal stage," he complains. "Tell her there aren't enough people coming to her so-called 'protests' yet for her to start giving out autographs."

"Benny."

He sighs. "Okay. Sorry. So, listen, I'm calling to ask – "

Mark swallows. Shit. He completely forgot.

"The wedding is in two weeks – can – would you be my best man?"

Mark turns from Maureen, grimacing. Shit! "Benny, I'm flattered, really, it means a lot to me, but …" Fuck. "With Collins gone, I just – I just don't wanna leave Roger alone like that. Even for something like this," he hurries to add, to show Benny he realizes the significance. He wonders if Benny knows.

_I really don't want to be a witness to this – this fucking sham wedding to some stuck-up bitch who won't even come to the loft. Who **are** you? _

Benny sighs. "I understand."

Mark decides to give Benny a little test. A chance. "But maybe you could bring – um – "

"Allison," Benny supplies.

"Right, sorry, Allison. Maybe you could bring her by the loft sometime, let us all meet this chick you've been hiding from us."

Benny laughs, and Mark could be wrong, but to him Benny sounds uneasy. "I don't know, man … things are so crazy with the wedding …"

"Of course they are," Mark answers, pinching his nose.

"Listen," Benny says after a pause. "I got my paycheck today, I'll come by this week and write you guys a check – it's not much right now, but should do you for some food and shit."

Mark swallows. Just when he writes him off … "Thanks, Benny. Really."

"It's no problem. Now, look, I should go, Allison will want to know and find a replacement …"

"I'm sorry, Ben."

"I know," Benny says softly. "It's okay. I really do understand."

"Okay. Well, I mean, god, good luck."

Benny laughs. "Thanks. I'll see you – maybe Wednesday?"

"Okay," Mark agrees, and hangs up before turning to Maureen, who's sitting on the couch now and reading.

"That man," she says, casually turning a page, "Is enough to make a girl bat for the other team."

Mark laughs and lightly hops over the side of the couch, landing sloppily on top of Maureen. He kisses her even as she's giggling.

"Maybe I can make up for him."

She smiles up at him, eyes shining, and Mark wonders if he sees a little shadow pass over her face before she pulls him in for a longer kiss.

"Maybe you can," she says.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark is walking back into the kitchen after checking on Roger, quietly glancing into the room to see the other boy asleep, blankets kicked down around his feet. Emotion fills Mark, just for a moment, and then is gone. But it leaves something behind.

Okay, he thinks, leaning over the counter and looking unseeingly over the loft. Obviously, he loves Roger. In a lot of different ways. And this is why this is all so hard, and scary. Roger has spent almost six months locked up in the loft now. He hasn't used for twenty-one days. Mark's not sure what this math adds up to, but suddenly the need for difference overwhelms him, a kind of franticness abruptly running through his veins. He needs to _do_ something. Things need to change.

"We have to fucking slap him across the face to wake him up," was what Collins had said when Mark told him about Roger slamming the door in his face that day.

_And thank you for visiting Roger's den of death._

"He's so close, I think, but there's something … I told him if he didn't stop with this shit, you'd be out the door."

"Collins." Mark doesn't look at him, afraid his eyes will show the anger he feels. He doesn't want Roger to think that way. He wants him to have one secure thing. One thing to give him a little safety.

But his voice must give him away. "I'm telling you, Mark, we've gotta kill to be kind." His voice drops as he looks towards Roger's door. "Nothing is gonna happen while he's locked up in here. All he's got is memories or the drugs."

Mark swallows, not wanting to think of this, inexplicably wishing for things to just stay the same, just have no more change, just let it be. He runs a hand over his face. 

"So what do you suggest?"

Collins looks at him, and the almost lost look in his eyes scares the hell out of Mark. "I don't know. I don't know how to make him see, I don't know what he cares about enough now to make him …" Collins hesitates, looking unsure.

"Want to live," Mark eventually finishes quietly, his eyes being drawn to the same door Collins is looking at. He senses more than sees Collins turn to look at him. After a moment, an hour, a year, he speaks again.

"Yeah," he says tiredly, and Mark closes his eyes. He'd wanted an argument so badly.

Now Mark straightens, stretching out tired and aching muscles, and goes to stand outside Roger's door. He still has no idea what the fuck he's supposed to do. Something.

After a few minutes standing there in silence, worrying at his bottom lip, Mark slowly reaches forward, opening the door. He still doesn't know what he's going to say when he enters Roger's room.

Roger looks over for a moment, awake now, but doesn't greet him. Mark sighs inwardly when Roger turns back to the wall. He runs over the Rules in his mind. Don't talk about April. Don't talk about Maureen, or Roger's mother, or about leaving the loft. For the love of god, don't mention drugs, or dying. None of this. And don't touch him. Unexpected touches always end up in backing away and frightened eyes. Not even a hand on the shoulder or he's scrambling away.

Mark steps closer to Roger's bed, breathing evenly. 

"You know she wouldn't have wanted you to do this."

He can see Roger's muscles contracting, tightening, can feel the pain and rage emanating from the bed. But he doesn't back down.

"This would have killed her, Roger."

Roger doesn't look at him, voice tight. "It doesn't matter. Something else did."

"And it doesn't have to be the same for you."

There's a pause, heavy silence in the room. Roger still doesn't look at him. 

"You better not be saying what I think you're saying."

Mark takes a deep breath. "I'm saying you're strong, Rog, and you can do this. I don't think you believe that right now – " _And neither can I_ – "But you are. You can beat this, you can – "

"Do what April couldn't?"

Mark almost flinches at the harsh tone, almost steps forward to put a hand on Roger. He waits a moment, weighing his options and his words. He deflates a little when he speaks, deciding to take the challenge.

"Yes. You can do what April couldn't."

He knows Roger wants to hit him right now. Probably wants that even more than he wants the drugs. "Fuck. That."

"It's true."

Roger looks at him now. "It's such bullshit, you don't even know."

Mark shakes his head slowly, purposefully. "It's not – and I'm sorry she couldn't do it, Roger – but she just didn't have it in her." Mark stops, swallows. "It wasn't her fault. She just didn't have it in her," he says again, softly. "But whatever it was she needed – you have it. I see it in you. I know it."

"You're goddamned right it wasn't her fault." Roger spits out bitterly. "And April – April had the guts to do what I never could."

Mark reels back as if he's been hit. Not true. It's so not true.

He thinks this even as his mind whispers that it is.

"Roger – "

Roger turns away, and Mark's mind is working a mile a minute. "Just leave, Mark, okay?"

Mark stays exactly where he is. "What did you mean?"

"That I'd like you to please get the fuck out of – "

"No," Mark interrupts. "That it wasn't her fault. What did you mean?" He doesn't answer, and Mark steps closer. "Roger?"

"Fuck, would you just _give up_ already?" Roger asks, voice tired and cutting. "Goddammit, Mark. Fine. I did it all. And I deserve everything I've fucking gotten. I got her into the drugs, she was – " He stops, breathing.

"She was this fucking _kid_ when I met her. And then she got into the scene, and I didn't stop her." Roger's voice reaches a new level of bitterness, and Mark can't help but wince. "I even shared my fucking needles. I – I wasn't there that night, I didn't _stop_ her, and I fucked all those people, I didn't know, but still I was so fucking _stupid_, and now she's …"

Roger stops again, staring at the wall as if he's not even talking at all.

"Gone. I infected her, you know I did, and it scared the shit out of her, and now she's gone."

Mark just stands there, stunned. He'd had no idea. He should have.

"Roger," he says gently, stepping over to be close, even if he doesn't dare touch him yet. "Roger, no. We don't know." Roger shakes his head, and Mark hurries to continue. "We can't know. And April – " He swallows, feels cool soft lips on his cheek. "She made choices. They weren't – they weren't the best choices, but it was the best she could do."

Roger's still shaking his head, looking down now. "No."

"Yes." And Mark reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder, reaches for the right words, and Roger just looks up at him. "If you were such a terrible – if you deserved this – I wouldn't be hanging around. I promise you."

Roger searches his face a moment, still looking pinched and angry. But Mark feels a little bit of a difference. He feels enough to lean over and kiss Roger on the head, just for a second, then rears back and gently brushes back Roger's hair. It's a mothery gesture that makes Mark feel silly, but somehow it feels right. "She loved you. Anyone could see it. And April – you loved each other. There was no infecting, no doing anything to hurt each other – you just loved each other."

Roger stares up at him, and Mark feels that this is enough. For now. He lets his hand slide off Roger's arm and walks out of the room.

As soon as he closes the door, Mark slumps against it, legs weak and breathing hard. This is the first time either of them have really talked about April. Mark's a little surprised he's still alive.

But he knows what this means. He knows that tomorrow will bring another ride on the merry-go-round. But maybe, he thinks, Roger needs one step back before taking his steps forward.

Mark lets himself feel a little hope right then.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark is amazed.

Roger hasn't left his room. Collins is gone, and that talk in Roger's room – really, it's been the most emotional confrontation they've had. They spoke about the unspeakable.

And now it's the next morning. Afternoon. Night. Week.

And Roger hasn't run.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"It's been a month," Mark whispers in the darkness, facing the wall, Maureen's body wrapped around him from behind. He feels her kiss his shoulder.

"That's good."

"Yeah." Mark speaks reluctantly, still feeling that tightness in his chest. Every day is still a new waiting game. He's scared to let himself relax now, even a little. "I just – I feel like if I _breathe_ the wrong way, he'll go. He'll leave and get the drugs and it will all start all over again …"

"Shhh," Maureen says quietly, and he can feel her pulling her body closer to his.

"I should be happy, I should be relieved," Mark chuckles softly. "It's been so long, he always stays in his room, I know where he is every minute, I don't need to listen anymore for any little sound he makes …"

Maureen tightens her arms around him, kisses at his hair, whispers endearments.

Mark sighs, even as he basks in her warmth and attention. "I just wish I _knew_. What was right and wrong to do. What's going to happen – "

Maureen kisses his ear, talks quietly, close to him. "You can't control it, baby. For your sake, I wish you could, but you can't."

"I know," Mark says miserably, leaning back into her. But it seems like he _should_ be able to.

"You just have to trust him as best you can. And like you say, he's been staying in his room, and he's not using then."

"I know." Mark pushes the side of his face down into the pillow. "But – he can't just stay in the loft forever, either." Mark feels a familiar little stab of fear. "He needs to get out of here, live again."

He feels Maureen's warm mouth on his neck, can't help but smile.

"He'll be fine," she says softly in his ear, tickling him. "And so will you. I promise."

He turns to look at her, and she's smiling, so sweet, so perfect, and he wraps his arms around her and succumbs again to her magic. Maureen's the only one who makes him forget.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, when Mark walks from his room to Roger's to check on him, see if he's awake, Roger's not there again.

This time, Mark doesn't freak out. He calmly checks every room, the balcony, and then checks them one more time. Only then does a little spark of panic light up in his chest.

But then he remembers the roof. It doesn't take long to get out there, and there he is, sitting on one of those folding chairs April had found in the dumpster behind the building. Mark stops when he sees him. Roger's holding his guitar.

"Hey," Mark says slowly, cautiously walking over to his friend. "You okay?"

Roger's mouth turns up, but Mark knows him well enough to know that it isn't a smile. "Yeah."

Mark gestures. "So. You've … you been playing?"

Roger sighs angrily and none too carefully drops the guitar. "Dammit, Mark."

Mark bristles. Can't Roger let him have this one thing, after all these months?

"What?"

Roger looks at him, and his eyes seem a little red, squinting against the sun. "Will you just let me _breathe_, for God's sake?" He grimaces. "Every minute you're there, breathing down my fucking neck like I'm going to break or something." Roger looks up at him, apology making his face a little less hard. "I just need some room."

Mark pauses, ridiculously aware of his chest rising and falling. It was like a slap to the face, hearing Roger say that. He swallows.

"Fine," he says, and turns around, walking back to the loft. Then he grabs his jacket, and walks around the city for the rest of the day.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

It's almost nightfall when Mark returns. Maureen should be getting home any minute, and Mark is looking forward to it. He thinks he might try to talk her into going out, sharing a dinner somewhere, to get out, to be together, to feel light with each other for a while.

Mark pulls back the loft door, surprised to see the loft lit only by the fading rays of the sun. He walks in, and sees a figure sitting on the windowsill. Roger. And he's staring – just staring out the window, motionless – with his guitar in his lap. Mark can feel his mouth tightening as he walks over.

"No," he says when he's right beside him, and Roger looks up in surprise.

"No what?" he asks. "Where'd you come from?"

"Look, Roger, I don't know what's going on," Mark says roughly, wondering even as he speaks where these words are coming from. Not him. "I have no fucking idea. But _fuck_ if I am gonna let it ruin you. And if that means – if it isn't already _painfully_ clear, I'm not going anywhere. No matter what the fuck you say. No matter what you do."

Roger just stares at him a moment. Mark can see him swallowing, and wonders what the fuck he's doing. Why is he risking pissing off Roger? Why is he doing something that could scare him away?

Roger licks his lips, eyes never leaving Mark's. "Well, that's not going to work, Mark. Because I'm not some little pet for you to take care of and dress up."

Mark stares at him, disbelieving. Then he springs into action, grabbing a poster off the wall and pulling a pen out of a drawer, scribbling a quick note to Maureen. He can't stay and wait for her. He can't go out for dinner anymore. He just needs to walk. He needs to get _out_.

He can feel Roger's eyes on him as he hauls the door to the loft open one more time. But there are a couple more things fighting their way out of him.

"Fuck you," are his parting words to the man watching him from the windowsill.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark walks almost all night – it's probably not the smartest thing he could do, but he needs to. There's a burn in him he needs to put out, and this is the only way he can think of to do it.

When he gets home, Maureen is already awake, sitting curled up on the couch and drinking coffee.

"Hey, baby," she says, looking up at him, her face tight. "I was worried."

He collapses beside her. "I'm sorry."

She looks at him concernedly. "Where were you?"

"I was walking." Mark says simply, stretching his neck.

"…Are you okay?"

Mark looks at her, nods. "I … went somewhere, too."

She looks at him curiously, taking a sip of coffee.

Mark shifts uncomfortably. "I – I yelled at Roger last night. I really did," he adds wryly, seeing Maureen's look. "And I was worried – what if I made him use, you know? What if I – "

Mark pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs, feeling like a five year old. He's feeling that way a lot lately, he realizes. "And, so, there was this clinic open, and I went in, and talked to them."

"And?" Maureen says intently. Mark can't help but wonder if she's hoping for something.

"And they said that if I think Roger is using again, I have the option to call an ambulance."

Maureen takes a quick little breath. "You mean – "

"I mean." Mark nods slowly, looking up but not seeing anything around him. "I just – they talked about all this stuff, about dealing with emotional problems …" Mark rubs his hand against the back of his neck, trying to massage out the knots. It doesn't work.

Maureen looks away, her eyes troubled. "But he hasn't used in a really long time, right? So maybe – maybe he is dealing with it … Maybe you don't have to worry … "

Mark shakes his head, a small movement that barely registers. "No. I mean, right now it's okay, yeah. But if he uses again – if he – it means he doesn't have a handle on it." Mark casts his eyes down. "And I would have to call – "

He catches the widening of her eyes. "They'd force him?" Maureen breathes.

"I wouldn't have any other choice!" Mark bursts out, loud, months of tension coiling in his body. He takes a deep breath, and lowers his voice. "I'm not even sure we could afford it, if they'd do it if we couldn't pay …"

"It won't come to that. And if you can't pay …" Maureen shrugs as if to say that then, the choice would be taken out of his hands. Mark scowls and turns away, eyes burning dryly and feeling forced open. He doesn't think he wants to see Maureen's reaction to his words.

"If it worked, I'd fucking sell my blood every fucking week to pay for it."

Maureen doesn't say anything, doesn't react to the low, intense tone in his voice that surprises even him, and Mark looks at her for a second, suddenly feeling impossibly tired. "Look, I'm – I'm on no sleep, I'm not making sense … I'm gonna go lay down, try to nap – or something."

Mark turns away when she nods, kissing her lightly before he heads into their bedroom. He turns back one last time, and can see Maureen staring at the floor intently before looking up quickly to glance at the door of Roger's room.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"Come in," Roger calls tiredly, feeling slightly annoyed by the knock. Mark has seen him naked and puking and shiveringly incoherent. He doesn't need to fucking knock.

But the door opens and the dark haired girl peeks her head in. Maureen. Roger sits up quickly, a little resentment burning through his chest. It's bad enough Collins and Benny and Mark had to see him this way. A stranger seeing him is practically unforgivable.

"Hi," she says, sounding a little shy, giving him a wave. Roger has to keep himself in check and not roll his eyes.

He satisfies himself by simply staring at her, not returning the greeting. He's a little surprised by her reaction. She stares back levelly, and then walks in and grins. 

"You really are an amazing bastard, you know that?"

Roger smirks. "Thank you."

She crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the wall in a surprisingly Mark-like pose. "Yeah, well, it's not like it was a compliment."

Roger shakes his head, but doesn't feel comfortable enough to lie down and face away from her. "I figured."

"Look, I don't know you," she says after a moment, not meeting his eyes. "And god knows I'm the last person on Earth who should make judgements on _anybody_."

Roger waits, looking at her. He can't imagine what all this is about. 

"But I love Mark," she continues, and Roger feels another inexplicable little stab of dislike. "I really do. And he's so worried about you, so scared and works so hard for you – "

"Hey," Roger interrupts, sitting up straighter now, feeling pissed. "I haven't used in ages. Where was this little lecture when I was shooting up every night?"

"When you were shooting up every night you wouldn't have remembered a goddamned word I said."

If he didn't care about Mark so much – "It's really none of your fucking business, is it?"

"But it is," she says, and her voice is softer now as she looks down at the floor. "I don't want him to be hurt." Maureen pauses, looking down at her hands on her chest before looking back at him. When she speaks, it's quietly, almost a whisper. "I just don't see what makes you so fucking special."

Roger keeps himself from starting, from looking up sharply to see what she means. But he thinks about it.

She laughs suddenly, and it's not a nice laugh. "I bet you can't stand me. But we're more alike than you think."

Roger looks at her, stubbornly silent. He's not going to let one drop of his curiosity show on his face. After a few moments of this quiet stand-off, she sighs.

"The way he sees us – we can never be what he needs for us to be."

Roger feels a quick blaze of fury, of determination. "Speak for yourself."

She glances at him, eyes hard. "I'm glad you said that. And you are doing good. So I'm just telling you to keep doing good. And to not fuck this up."

Roger can't believe the nerve of this chick. His only defence is to keep staring at her, trying in the only way he can to be as unnerving to her as she is to him right now.

Maureen looks away, then glances back at Roger again, almost smiles. "You count on him, right?"

Roger's never thought about it before, but he knows the answer. "Yeah."

"Well, he needs someone to count on, too. And I've never seen anybody – " She pauses, watching him, like she's trying to figure something out. He fidgets inwardly a little under those searching eyes. "He loves you. A lot. That should mean something to you."

"It does."

"Then like I said," she says, straightening up and turning towards the door. "Don't fuck this up."

Roger's furious. This presumptuous incredible bitch. "Well, thanks for this little visit, I really fucking appreciate it!"

She turns back at his yelling, already halfway down the hall.

"Yeah," she answers. "You should."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

When Mark is making coffee one day, it hits him.

Forty five days. Forty five days and Roger hasn't used.

Mark puts down his mug, astonished. My god, this is by far the longest he's gone, and the time has snuck up on Mark. He's used to counting but now barely registers the significance of whatever number he's on. Roger still gets cold occasionally, still has sleepless nights when Mark can hear him pacing through his room –

But he hasn't used.

Mark can feel a giddiness rising up in him. He can't say anything to Roger, that would be the absolute stupidest thing he could do – but he wants to be with him, see him for a while, and for the first time just acknowledge how far they've both come.

He's scared, but he knows he's less scared than he used to be. And he'd really like to share that feeling with Roger. If he'll let him.

Mark decides he's going to go out. He leaves the coffee warm and runs out of the loft and down the street, until he comes to the nearest café. He ducks inside and asks to use the bathroom, ignoring the annoyed look of the host and stopping by a table on the way out, grabbing a handful of sugar packets and little plastic cups of cream and stuffing them in his pants pockets.

The sun is shining on the walk back, and Mark looks around, amazed. Spring has hit New York now – real spring, with sunshine and things blossoming and warmth shimmering in the air. Another thing that's snuck up on him.

He gets back to the loft and finds the biggest mug they own, pouring in steaming coffee and then adding a ridiculous amount of sugar and cream. He grins to himself, a little. This needs to be his celebration. As far as he knows, Roger won't even look at him when he goes in.

He gives a quick knock but walks right in, and Roger looks up at him, a little grin on his face.

"I could have been jerking off, you know."

Mark raises his eyebrows, and hands Roger the mug. "You've got nothing I haven't seen."

Roger sits up and takes the mug, glancing at it as Mark goes to stand by the door. "We have milk?"

"Cream," Mark says, nodding at the cup. "Enough for that, at least."

"Nice," Roger says, and takes a sip, and Mark has to hold back a grin. It's stupid to feel this good about something that small, it really is.

"Can I stay a while?"

Roger nods, taking another drink, and Mark slides to the floor, watching him. After a moment he catches himself and looks down to the bottom of Roger's bed, feeling a slight flush in his face. Most of the time, he doesn't think about what he feels for Roger now. He just gets through the day.

But when simply bringing someone a special cup of coffee can be so good, can make him feel this way …

"You okay?"

Mark looks up sharply, thinking Roger has finally gone and read his mind. He's trying to formulate the right response when Roger continues.

"I mean, I know it's … hard. And without Collins …"

Oh. Right. Collins. Mark nods. "I'm okay."

"You sure?"

Mark wonders if Roger really cares, if he's even listening, but when he looks up Roger is staring at him, connecting and there. Another surprise. There's more and more of those these days.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

Mark looks down again, feeling Roger's eyes on him.

"I should have known that," Roger says quietly, breaking the suddenly heavy silence in the room. 

"Known what?" Mark asks curiously.

"That you'd be okay," Roger answers, looking at his door and not at Mark. "You always are. It's like … it's like you have this whole other world that you can slip into, whenever you want." Roger smiles a little tightly. "It used to drive me crazy, feeling like I couldn't follow where you went when we were pissed at each other. But I could almost see it on your face – you cutting off and going into yourself."

Mark watches Roger silently, feeling taken aback and wondering what's coming next. Did he really do that? What is Roger talking about?

"You're always so strong, Mark," Roger says after a moment, a small sigh hinting through his voice, and Mark feels another electric shock of surprise. What?

"I wish I was more like you … if I could just get away … not think about it, not feel so much, not be so _in it_ all the time …" Roger coughs lightly. "I miss her." And then he laughs, just a little, sounding like he's about to cry. "And I miss playing my fucking guitar. How stupid and ridiculous is that, huh?"

Mark wonders, if Roger looked up at him right now instead of staring into his lap, if Roger would be able to see how his heart was breaking right now. Would see how there was no way in hell he could ever speak because his throat is closed off too tightly.

But no. Roger thinks he's strong.

_That's_ what's ridiculous. Because right now Mark's heart is so big and so filled with pain for Roger that he can barely stand it. It's one of _those_ times, the ones that come on so suddenly and are so hard to get through. Mark leans back and hits his head lightly on the wall, and wishes Roger could look just a little closer.

Mark _is_ in it, in it all, all the time. But so much of that, so much of the emotion that builds up in him – it's unsharable. No one can ever know. Not even Roger. _Especially_ not Roger. Not now. So he keeps it to himself.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't feel it.

When he feels like he has enough control, Mark dares to get up and go lay beside Roger on the bed, stretching out with his head resting by the knee of the boy sitting cross-legged beside him. He looks up at the ceiling, and can feel Roger turning to look down at him. Somehow Mark knows what Roger is about to ask. But that doesn't mean he has any idea of how the hell to answer him. 

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

Roger pauses. "Why do you put up with it?"

Mark laughs suddenly, forced and uncomfortable. "What?"

"I know we've been – you know, best friends, or whatever – since practically the moment we met." Mark turns in time to see Roger looking down at him, Roger's lip curled up softly, and Mark smiles back, maybe the first genuine smile he's given Roger since that night.

"But, still, man – I mean, shit, my own mother … I don't think my mom would have stuck through all this."

Roger stares at Mark, right in his eyes, making him feel like those green eyes are seeing right through him, seeing every thought and molecule that makes him up. Mark remembers suddenly how he was the one to make the call to Roger's mother; he was the one to tell the barest of details he could and still hear her near-hysteria, the one to convince her that her coming to the city immediately would _not_ be the best thing, the one who promised her that he would take care – good care – of her son.

Mark is flooded with memories then, playing just behind his eyes, released by the thought of that phone call. The first night he came here, following up on some offer his roommate from Brown had casually made almost a year before. Mark had suddenly decided one day to just quit school and actually try and do with his life what he'd always wanted, and fuck everything else. He was standing dripping in Benny's doorway that night, holding Benny's last letter, hadn't called beforehand, hadn't even told his parents yet, it was raining and cold and dirty and he was pretty sure he'd just seen somebody getting mugged. Mark was fucking terrified.

And this boy with an easy grace and bleached blonde spiked hair had walked over to him and Benny, interest in his eyes, and slung an arm over Mark's shoulder, laughing.

"You're soaking wet," he'd said, looking earnestly down into Mark's eyes, as if Mark didn't already know how pathetic he was without being made fun of. Then he'd raised his head to Benny.

"Are you the cat that dragged this one in?"

It turned out that Roger had been dragged in the month before by Collins, who had immediately pulled out his stash of pot and given Mark his first ever hit of a drug. They'd all talked and laughed, but Mark and Roger had stayed up the longest, sitting on a pile of blankets in front of the loft's windows, talking until the sun started streaking through the loft while the other boys snored softly.

It had happened so easily – Roger had been the outsider, and then he was the big brother that Mark had never had taking him under his wing. After that first night Mark was never scared about living in New York again.

The club. That one time, not long before Roger had met April – and now Mark wonders if Roger was high then, but at the time it hadn't even crossed his mind, he hadn't known the signs – in the back after a show, at this tiny table, knees touching, and Mark had only had one beer, so he couldn't blame it on that, and he'd giggled that he'd never slept with a girl.

Roger's eyebrows had hit the ceiling. "Really? You're a virgin? I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but – "

"Shut up," Mark had said easily, grinning and taking another sip of beer. "I said I've never slept with a girl. I didn't say I was a virgin."

It takes a few moments for this to sink in before a slow smile spreads across Roger's face. "No shit?"

"No shit," Mark confirms, nodding.

"So who's your type?" Roger asks, gesturing to all the people dancing around them. Mark points out one couple, a girl with long blonde hair and a guy with brown messy hair and tattoos, their arms wrapped around each other.

"I like them. They're both cute."

In the lights of the club, Roger's eyes look like they're sparkling. "No shit," he says again, and he almost sounds admiring, and before Mark can try to analyze that Roger's mouth is on his and they're kissing, tongues warm in each other's mouths.

When Roger breaks away, he laughs, looking away as he asks, "So would I be your type?"

And Mark only has time to think _Hell, yes_, before Roger jumps up and throws himself into the crowd of dancers.

And then that night, Roger cradling April's still face, his eyes burning into Mark. Just – burning. Mark's heart clutching and calling the ambulance and crawling into bed next to Roger when he was scared to even look at him.

Mark turns slightly away from Roger now to stare at the ceiling. "I don't know," he says simply.

But it's a lie. He knows.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Hey! So, this is the last chapter of this story – I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks so much for reading. And especially thank you to everyone who left a review! mwah

I may write a post-RENT sequel to this, I'm still unsure … but I have an outline written, so it just may happen. facepalm Still, I hope this ending works on its own.

I hope you enjoy, and thanks again:)

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Mark's sitting reading in the main room when the phone rings. He waits, laying his book down beside him, and soon Collins's voice is booming through the loft.

"You fucking fuckers! You fucking answer the phone or I will _fucking_ – "

"Collins!" Mark interrupts him, laughing as he lunges and brings the phone to his ear. "Shut up!"

"That'll teach ya." Mark can almost see Collins grinning on the other end. "How are things?"

"Fine." Mark looks to Roger's closed door. "He stays in his room – well, way too much. But he hasn't used."

"Really?"

"Really." Mark looks away, pleased at the surprised tone in Collins's voice. It's nice to be talking of good news, for once.

"Well, fuck me," Collins says happily. "And how are the lovebirds? You guys whooping it up every weekend?"

Mark's confused for a moment, but then he smiles and puts his head in his hand. "Oh. We're fine. Maureen is …" Mark pauses, and lowers his voice, just in case. Suddenly he realizes that he and Maureen haven't gone out … well, for ages. Ever since that last time – they've gone out for dinner, a few times, always staying within minutes of the loft. And Mark always ends up feeling more worried than happy … "She's so great with this Roger thing. I don't know what I'd do without her. Anyway, how is school?"

Collins snorts. "School. You make me sound like I'm skipping through the doors with a fucking backpack on my shoulder. It's fine. But I'm not calling in to talk about me, I need to find out if I need to hire a goddamn babysitter for you two." 

Mark grins. "Asshole. We're good, really."

Collins pauses. "You need some cash? I got paid."

Mark shakes his head quickly, frowning. "No. Benny said he'd come over and … he hasn't, but he will. And remember, we don't have to pay rent. We're fine," he insists, hearing the doubt in Collins' silence. 

"Okay," Collins says quietly, and then his voice returns to normal. "I'm still sending you some money. Don't say a word, I know you don't need it, you can fucking well use it for maxipads for Maureen's next act for all I care. But I'm sending it. Now, come on, man, give me some thrills here. Dancing, drinking, fucking." Collins groans. "I have a million idiotic papers in front of me that I'm actually expected to _read_. I'm depressed. Suicidal. Cheer me up."

Mark laughs. He never mentions that word – he never even thinks it. But somehow when Collins says it it's okay.

"I wasn't lying. I can tell you a bunch of really exciting bullshit, but I'm telling you, I hardly ever leave the loft anymore."

He realizes it's the wrong thing to say the second the words leave his mouth. Collins takes a breath, and Mark can picture the furrowed brow and the lecture face. Fuck. He should have just lied.

"You're kidding me, right?" Collins says finally. "Don't, Mark. Do not tell me that the moment I leave you suddenly join Roger in the fucking Overlook Hotel. That's just – no. No. You can't – "

"I leave sometimes," Mark says hurriedly. "It's just – I feel better staying here. And it's good for me – " Mark glances at the untouched notebook on the table. "I'm writing. You know, I get into it, and …"

"You are such a fucking liar," Collins interrupts tiredly. "What about Maureen?"

"Maureen?" Mark's voice is innocent, but he has another little stab of disquiet. Maureen doesn't ask him to go out dancing anymore. She works, and she buys groceries, and she holds him at night when he needs her. With a feeling of mild horror, Mark realizes that he's been selfish. Completely. He throws his head forward, mouthing a fierce silent curse before returning to the phone. In all his concern for Roger, he's forgotten … in having her, he's forgotten how much he needs her. She's still there, she's wonderful, she's there for him when he needs her … but that wildness he loves. It's not there anymore. And he barely even noticed.

Mark gets a little terrified for a minute. Knowledge has just slithered into his consciousness and he can't get it out. Dammit. Something in Maureen is lacking now, he can see it.

But he has no idea what the fuck to do about it.

"Mark?"

Mark whirls, hearing both voices at once. Shit. He has to resist the urge to cover his beating heart with his hand.

"Yeah," he says into the phone to Collins, and nods at Roger's questioning look and mouthing of "Collins?"

Suddenly Roger strides over and stands beside him, holding his face impossibly close to Mark's and speaking with their mouths almost touching.

"Collins, man, you blown up the place yet?"

"Roger!"

His voice is more distant now as Mark makes room for Roger, but he can still tell how thrilled Collins is. As thrilled as Mark is. Roger sounds like his old self, if only for a moment. And the side of his forehead is warm against Mark's.

"Yeah, who'd you expect, Billy Idol?"

Collins laughs. "Maybe this surprises me more. How're you doing?"

Roger pauses. "I'm fine," he says, and Mark has to bite back a smile, because it seems like Roger might actually mean it.

"Good," Collins' voice comes out between them. "With me in this hellhole, I need you guys taking care of each other, okay?"

Mark slides his eyes towards Roger, and his breath catches a bit when he sees that Roger is looking at him, too.

Roger nods, not looking away. "Yeah, I know."

There's a pause, and Mark knows he and Collins are feeling the same right now. "Well. Good to hear."

Roger laughs a little at the biting tone of his friend's voice, and Mark grins at him.

"Listen," Roger says after a moment of smiling silence. "Collins, I – " He stops, closes his eyes, then opens them to catch Mark's unwavering gaze again. "I love you."

Mark nearly drops the phone when Roger abruptly turns, and in less than a moment has disappeared back into his room. He catches himself, tightens his grip on the phone, and shares in the stunned silence coming from the receiver.

"Well. Fuck me," Collins says finally, and Mark has to laugh. "He's gone, right?"

Mark nods. "Yeah. He – he just walked away."

"Still." Mark can hear the smile. It's good. "That sort of made up for everything, right there."

They talk for a little while longer, light and laughing.

Mark knows exactly how Collins feels.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The next night Mark tells Roger he's going out; he gets as dressed up as he can and then walks to the café where Maureen is working.

"Baby!" She looks up, shocked, and then her face breaks into a grin. "What are you doing here?"

Mark shrugs out of his jacket, watching her stand there with her hair pulled up in a messy bun, holding a tray of empty glasses and looking almost otherworldly, she's so beautiful. He grins at her.

"I'm kidnapping you," he answers, sitting at the closest empty table.

Maureen looks toward the back of the restaurant, and then back at him, smiling. "You know, I'd be more than happy to be kidnapped. And you're the only person I'd ever say that to."

"I'm honoured." Mark laughs.

Maureen's smile widens. "But I can't – I'll get fired."

Mark leans back in his chair, never taking his eyes off her. He wants to reach up and slide out the pencil holding her hair together, wants to watch it tumbling to her shoulders, lit by the yellow lights of the café. "Your boss wouldn't let you go?"

She bites her lip and looks back again, then shakes her head. "We're short tonight."

Mark smiles. "Then the kidnapping can wait. For now, though, I think I'll spend the evening here. Think we can afford a chocolate milk?"

Maureen laughs loudly, and a few customers look over at them. "Very grown-up choice, sir," she teases him. "Right away."

Soon she's back, handing him a large glass of chocolate milk and sitting down across from him.

"I'm taking a break," she explains, watching him drink. He puts his glass down and she giggles. "You've got a mustache now."

"The only one I'll ever have," he grumbles, holding back a smile. He starts to swipe at his face, but Maureen pushes herself up and leans across the table, kissing him.

He grins when she sits back in her seat, licking her lips, and he swipes the milk away, and he ends up staying there for her whole shift. And she comes to kiss him between every customer.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Roger's alone in his room, thinking.

He doesn't know why it pisses him off that Mark left. It's normal, he wants to get out, and god knows he's done enough for Roger. Too much. Roger knows this.

And fuck that Maureen bitch for ever insinuating that he wouldn't be there for Mark. If Mark were going through something like this … Roger would be there for him. He knows he would.

Tonight the loft seems so quiet. Quieter than it's ever been. Roger has, for a long time, had a vague idea that he couldn't feel anything anymore. Even when he gets in the grips of anything, anger or fear or sadness, it's gone so quickly he can almost make himself believe he's only imagined it.

But tonight he's lonely, and there's no getting away from it. Maybe it's the increasing warmth of the loft, the knowledge of changing seasons, something indefinable that maybe someday he'll remember. He doesn't know, but it's there.

It never crosses his mind that he's lonely for Mark. It really doesn't.

All the same, he's thinking of him, even as the sharp agony of missing April is washing through his chest.

He lies in his bed, thinking about April, missing her, missing the feel of her, and he's barely aware of his hand trailing down his chest, his stomach …

He can see April's face, how it was, laughing and bright. He can feel his lips on Mark's.

And he can hear the quiet.

And suddenly – he has no idea why, he was starting to think he was better, starting to even wonder if he was cured of this – but suddenly the quiet is more than he can bear.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

When Mark checks on Roger that night, before going to bed, he almost doesn't realize that Roger is awake. But then he sees the small glint of the whites of his eyes shining in the darkness.

"…Roger?"

He doesn't answer, and Mark walks over. And Mark can swear that he _smells_ it before he ever notices the cloudiness in Roger's eyes.

"Fuck." He says it more in wonder than anything else, and in that moment he understands that he'd been letting himself believe more than he'd thought he was. "…Fuck."

Roger looks at him, slowly. "It was quiet."

Mark wants to cry. He takes a deep breath, holding his arms tightly at his sides, squeezing his own ribs. Suddenly he sits on Roger's bed, grabbing his arm and hauling him up.

He wants to yell, wants to swear and scream, but he doesn't. He can only hope that somehow Roger connects right now. 

"Roger," he says, and he's surprised at how steady his voice is. "I thought you were doing better. I thought …" he trails off, speaking more to himself now.

"Me, too," Roger says lightly, eyelids looking heavy, and Mark snaps back.

"Do you know what this means?" His voice starts getting harsher than he wants it to be. "You're going to get sick. You're going to get sick and cold and … and you're going to do it again and again."

Roger starts to shake his head, but Mark just keeps going.

"And I – I would keep riding this out with you," Mark says, bitterly, surprising himself again. "But what I really need – you need help. Do you know what I can do, Roger?"

Roger looks up at Mark's voice, the dangerous quality that seems to suddenly be running through it.

"I can call an ambulance. They'll take you away."

Roger looks up sharply, almost angry, and Mark shakes his head.

"You're high. That shit is running through your veins, and they'd know it. There's nothing you could do."

Mark's voice is quiet, final, and he feels tired. So tired. He looks at Roger, his decision made for him by that dazed quality in Roger's eyes. But for a moment – less than a moment, but enough – they connect. Mark and Roger – they're together, and Mark sees, for the first time in a long time, genuine emotion in Roger's face. Fear. Mark can see it there, Roger's face is naked with it, and it's the one thing Mark feels he really can't take.

He waits a moment before speaking. "Do you understand?"

"Don't."

One word. One word, just like all the others Mark's believed over the past months. But that fear – Roger's eyes suddenly clearing – it makes Mark want to give him one more chance. Collins' voice is echoing through his brain, distorted and far away, but Mark remembers the words.

_But Roger can._

"Please. Mark, I – "

Mark looks at him, can see Roger visibly relax. "One more time. You know now. One more time, and I – "

"I know." Roger lays back down, head sinking into his pillow. "I know."

"Good."

Mark stands, fighting down the oppressive tightness of his chest to breathe. Part of him – a ridiculous part, the part that probably controls his dreams at night – wants to fling himself at Roger, wants to lie in his bed and fall asleep next to him. Almost, he wants their places to be reversed. He wants to be sick and strung out and cold and shivering, and he wants for Roger to creep into his room.

Mark nearly puts his head in his hands. He is such a sick fuck. What the hell is wrong with him, that he would want that, even for that brief moment it flashed through his head?

He's so lost in thought he doesn't really hear Roger, doesn't register the softly spoken apology until he's out in the hall and he's closed Roger's door behind him. 

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

It's late, and Mark is lying in bed, mind stewing in all the writing he hasn't been doing. There have been no ideas. He's trying to force them out of his brain, he knows that they're in there somewhere – it's an exercise in frustration, he knows his concentration is absolutely fucking shot, but it's a lot easier to be frustrated over his lack of ideas and work and talent than to think about Roger, or to count the short amount of days since the last sickness. The last, last …

Mark wishes Maureen were home, and briefly wonders if he should have gone to work with her instead of staying home and trying to write. It would be – nice – to have her here.

Mark groans, putting a hand over his forehead and wondering what the fuck is wrong with him. Today has felt so wrong, has felt so confusing –

Mark chuckles quietly, a little bitterly, admitting to himself what has made everything wrong. Goddamn Roger, that's what's wrong.

Mark doesn't know how long he stares up at his ceiling after letting his arm fall to his side again, feeling his eyelids getting heavy and sleep finally beginning to steal over him. Has no idea how much time has passed between his acknowledgment of what the problem is and that problem quietly stepping into his room.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Roger knows he's fucked up. Big time. That he's pushing Mark to his breaking point. That Mark is all he really has.

And lying in his room, just like a few nights ago, he gets another wave of homesickness for April. This sudden longing that hits him, to be held, kissed, to feel warm wet lips trailing down his neck … these familiar and comforting sensations he remembers and that he's almost horrified that he still craves – when April isn't here.

He knows he loves Mark, that part is simple. But figuring out _how_ he loves him, that's a different story. And especially after last time, the thought of touching anyone brings a sharp pierce of fear. He's still afraid to touch. Roger wonders if that's why he refused to hug Collins goodbye. A protection he still needs, for whatever reason.

Roger shakes his head impatiently. It's not fair. None of it. And especially this stupid self-protection that keeps him from reaching out, from getting the one thing he really wants …

Or at least a reasonable replacement.

But, Roger thinks, Mark isn't a replacement. Mark is, well, _Mark_.

And tonight, that seems like enough. It seems like something he could want … that he does want. That would be safe.

Roger sighs. He is sick of all this lying around and fucking thinking. _Enough_.

He gets up, walking quietly but purposefully, and goes into Mark's room without knocking, and Mark had obviously been sleeping, but he sits up quick and tries to seem awake even as he slurs his words. 

"Roger? You okay?"

And Roger, closing his mind, not letting himself think, heads over to him and leans down quickly, kissing Mark. He can feel him stiffen, freeze, but he keeps kissing him and soon he can feel Mark kissing back.

When he opens his mouth, feels Mark's tongue against his, Roger lowers himself onto the bed beside Mark, pushing him down onto the mattress. He can feel Mark's heat and rolls on top of him to get closer to it, feeling Mark and tasting him and all of it is, god, so good.

Sliding his tongue around the inside of Mark's mouth, bodies pressed together, Roger reaches a hand between them and strokes at Mark through his boxers, and Mark gasps, and that's good, too. Roger almost smiles; almost loses himself in this moment, instead of any from the past.

But Mark arches up, pushing their hips together over Roger's hand, and the sensation explodes through Roger and he has to leap up, panting.

He stands there, over Mark's bed, meeting those confused eyes. God, he looks hurt, he didn't want to hurt Mark, didn't want any of this, he just wanted it to be easy to touch again, wanted to be normal again –

Roger doesn't apologize this time. He just turns away and goes out the door when the sight of Mark becomes too much.

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Mark is flopped out on his bed, breathing hard, hurt, horny. Fuck, now he wishes more than ever that Maureen was here. His fucking _girlfriend _–

_Yeah. Remember her, asshole?_

They could be together. She could take his thoughts away for a while. She could make him forget.

Not to mention, if Maureen were here, that whole little confusing scene would have never happened.

Turning over restlessly, Mark hears something. He stills, listening, waiting for the sound to come by his door instead of going in the other direction. The telltale shuffle of secretive footsteps. Moving away from him. 

_Goddammit!_

He jumps up and hurries out just in time to see Roger shrugging into his jacket. He must hear him, because Roger's movements suddenly get a lot slower, and after a beat of time he turns around.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"Hey, Mark," he says. 

"Fuck you," Mark answers, hurrying to put his body between Roger and the loft door. "You can fuck right off. You're not doing this." Mark's voice shakes. "Go back to your room."

Roger sneers to cover the sharp pang of anxiety, the fear and the need. "You're not my mommy. Now get the fuck out of my way."

"Make me."

"I will."

Mark narrows his eyes. "Over my dead fucking body."

And suddenly the anger Roger hasn't been feeling so much – the anger he's wondered about, has asked himself when it's going to show up – it's bubbling up uncontrollably. He is suddenly _so fucking pissed_ at Mark for saying that, for even hinting it, when this is what April – her – and it is _the worst_ – the worst thing anyone has ever done to him. Leaving him like that. How could she do it? How could he _say_ that?

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Both boys are astonished when Roger suddenly lunges towards Mark; and he's not trying to get past him but is shoving him, shoving him so hard that when Mark's back hits the door of the loft he loses his breath for a moment and his teeth rattle.

"You shut up," Roger yells, and it's hoarse, barely even a yell, but it gets its point and power across anyway. "Now let me go. Let me _go_."

Mark's not ready for speech yet. He just simply shakes his head. Roger looks at him a moment, and Mark can see the fire in his eyes, can feel the drop in his stomach, and he knows that this isn't going to be good. 

Roger slowly walks forward, keeping eye contact with Mark the whole time. "Why are you keeping me here, Mark?" he asks quietly, getting closer. "What is the good, anyway? I'm already dead." Mark opens his mouth to protest, but Roger doesn't let him. "No. I can't do drugs. I can't write, I can't play." Roger's so close now their faces are almost touching. When he speaks, Mark can feel his breath washing over his mouth. "I can't _fuck_."

Roger pauses, letting that hang in the air a moment before backing off and turning away, losing a little of his fierceness. "I can't even touch anyone. There's nothing I can do about the last ones. But the drugs – those I can get." He looks hard at Mark. "They make me feel better. And it's not like I'm staying alive for anything, anyway. So why don't you just let me go?"

Mark steps closer and reaches forward, trying to touch Roger, still wanting to communicate what he's been trying to say for ages now. He doesn't want to just leave it at this, have Roger think this way. But Roger shies away from his hand, backing up and pulling away. His face looks pained, and Mark steps back again.

He stares at Roger a moment, feeling slightly stunned before he swallows and speaks. "Because I love you."

They stare at each other a moment. That's the first time either of them have ever actually said this. Mark's eyes are burning, intense, hurting.

"You fucking idiot," he mutters, chuckling darkly as he drops his head. He's not sure if he means Roger or himself. "I love you. And I can't let you keep _doing_ this to yourself."

- - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - -

Mark lifts his head, looks straight into Roger's eyes. "And you know what else? You know the other reason, Roger?" Now Mark is stepping forward, looking dangerous, and Roger is the one backing up. "You _owe_ me." Roger's eyes widen, staring at his friend, who for the first time seems mad at him. Roger doesn't know whether to be relieved or terrified.

"You owe me," Mark says again, speaking quietly. "Because I _have_ stuck with you. Through all the drugs and the crying and the fucking drama – for all the blood and vomit and _shit_ I have cleaned up – you fucking owe me." Mark takes a deep breath, giving Roger a moment to let this sink in before speaking again.

Still with that quiet calmness that's making Roger's heart beat faster than if he was screaming, "And do you know what I want?" Roger gives no sign he's even heard, but Mark continues. "I want you clean. And alive. And _here_." Mark shrugs, staring hard at Roger, and raises his arms in a sharp submission.

"So do whatever the fuck you have to do. I'll be in my room."

And Mark disappears, leaving Roger to stand there, silent, for a very long time.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Mark goes into his room and sits on the side of his bed, putting his head in his hands. He doesn't emerge from his room for hours, sleepless, unsure if Roger has stayed or gone, if he'll find him angry and closed off or blank and cloudy. He's sure it will be one or the other, and he doesn't particularly relish either option.

When he finally cautiously gets up and approaches the main room, Mark is surprised to see Roger standing by the phone, talking quietly and wiping at his face. Mark stays long enough to hear Roger's quiet choked voice, to hear the word 'mom'.

Mark backs up, keeps enough out of sight to not intrude. He closes his ears, doesn't listen, just stands there fighting a small smile. He's still scared to smile. He's not sure what makes him suddenly listen, but he can hear Roger thanking her and telling her that he loves her. Mark steps out into the room in time to watch Roger slowly hang up the phone and collapse exhaustedly onto the couch.

Roger looks up at him. "She cried."

Mark smiles, just a little. "Are you surprised?"

Roger shakes his head, not looking up at Mark and twining his fingers together. "No. I just wish – "

Mark knows Roger doesn't want to articulate what he wishes, and he knows why. So he interrupts. "I know."

They're silent for a moment, and then Mark finally dares to step over and lower himself onto the couch beside Roger. As soon as he sits, he stiffens, tense with his surprise as Roger suddenly leans over and against him, dropping his head onto Mark's shoulder. Warmth spreads through Mark as he reaches up to put an arm around Roger, pulling him slightly closer. Not a lot; but enough.

Mark looks down at the messy head resting on him. "What did she say?"

Roger takes a shaky breath. "That she'll pay. She wasn't mad, she said … she said she loved me. But she'll never forgive me if I keep this kind of shit from her again." Roger laughs. "I love my mom. Anyway, she said I'll go to the hospital for a week. And then there's some kind of fucking counsellor I have to see for a month, if I stay clean."

Mark chuckles, hearing the scowl in Roger's voice at the thought of that counsellor. "Seems like she was pretty calm."

Roger snorts. "Yeah, well, your kid gets positive status, I guess you don't bank on his drug of choice being caffeine. I think she knew."

Mark nods. After a few minutes just sitting like that, his arm around Roger, he can feel the other boy look up.

"You promise?" Roger asks suddenly, his voice hoarse, and Mark smiles. He knows exactly what Roger is asking. And he still means what he says.

"I promise."

Roger takes a breath, his side collapsing and then expanding against Mark's chest. "What if what I need … what if I need to push you away?"

Mark reflects on what will need to be done, on how the next few months will play out, not knowing if Roger will crumble again and again or if this strength will continue. He's content, for once, with not being able to see into the future. He knows it's up to Roger now, instead of resting on his shoulders. He's content to let go a little.

And it probably is for the best that he can't see everything around the corner. Doesn't have an inkling about Maureen leaving him, about Roger being so strong but weak enough to still need the loft, or how Roger will need _something_ to live again, one last push that Mark can never give him, no matter how much he wants to be able to. Can't see the flickering light of a candle, or the comet ready to flash through all their lives.

It's a good thing, really, that he can't see it all. The dancer downstairs who will give Roger what he needs. The jacket he'll be handing to Roger – when all he really wants to do is grab Roger and run as far as he can. Mark doesn't know any of this; so he just hands Roger another jacket.

"Well, the promise only goes so far," Mark chuckles lightly. He looks down at Roger, who's staring searchingly up into his face. "You can push me away. Whatever it takes to get you better." He pauses. "But I told you. I'm not going anywhere."

Roger nods, not saying anything as he leans into Mark again. Mark tightens his hold on Roger infinitesimally, surprised anew at the wave of love that can suddenly roll right over him around Roger. He still doesn't understand why Roger has this effect on him.

But he knows he'll keep his promise. And for the first time, he believes that Roger is going to keep his promises, too.


End file.
